On the day we’d agreed,
at the exact time arranged
he stood by the station clock
with a battered, brown briefcase.
Why had he said he’d wear
the scarf? It was far too hot in May.
He sweated gently, dabbed
at his forehead with a handkerchief
while pretending to brush his hair.
He twisted his hands together.
I watched but couldn’t bring myself
to walk up to him and say who I was.
I knew it was unkind, unfair.
He was anxious of course
but he looked so pathetic,
so old, greasy, small and grey.
I’d thought there’d be something
about him to like on sight
I didn’t want him to be
my father and so I walked away.