The Last Breakfast by Sally Gardner
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The Last Breakfast Copyright © Sally Gardner 2010
A shrapnel wound from World War II,
my father would let me feel the knotted sinew
beneath the skin of his right forefinger knuckle.
Did you ever kill a man? I asked him,
then regretted it.
I was ten years old – we avoided the truth.
Dad hated khaki, hunger, had swallowed too much sand
fighting Rommel alongside Ghurkhas,
too many sheep eyes pleasing Arabs.
He made elaborate castles on the beach,
wore the brightest colours,
swallowed cockles, whelks and winkles – whisky,
whooshed me over breakers.
Breakfast he’d requested with silver and starched white linen,
cereal with forbidden gold top milk,
toast – thick globs of butter –
and his favourite, fried eggs, tomatoes, potatoes, kidneys, liver.
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Moving and intriguing
Moving and intriguing: I love the tension between what is revealed and what is not. The line about avoiding the truth is powerful - and is acted out in the poem which leaves this reader at least speculating about the title and the circumstances of the breakfast described in the last verse. A fine poem that lingers in the mind. RL
Background
Thanks Rob. My father died when he was 56. He'd had a history of heart problems. After the event my mother realised he had known he was going to die that day. He had taken a day off mid-week (unheard off), to play golf with his friend (also his doctor). He had requested the breakfast and had spent quality time with my mother before he went out. He finished the game and died at the 18th hole from a heart attack. Sally