Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to...
I remember when my granddad died when I was about aged four or five
I remember how, despite my grief, I never really cried
I remember how my dad reacted when he heard the awful news
I remember all his angry cries as my mum tried to comfort his blues.
I remember when I was a little girl watching my dad come home from the ale house
I remember because he was so drunk, I stood and watched as quiet as a mouse
I watched my mum get him out of his clothes and upstairs into bed
And I’ll always remember through slurred words, all the things he said.
I remember going to a Liverpool match on a ticket named “Dad and Lad”
I remember being ecstatically happy that it was just me and my dad
I remember feeling special as we sat up in the crowd
And I remember, as I watched my dad, that feeling of being so proud.
I remember when I was eleven and my mother left my dad
I remember how I thought it impossible that I could ever be that sad
I remember how I cried each night and prayed they’d get back together
And I remember how, during my prayers to God, I wished it would be forever.
I remember how my nan died when I was aged fourteen
I remember how when I needed him, my father was there for me
I remember how he came to the funeral and watched me give my speech
He even listened attentively when the vicar began to preach.
I remember the first time I realised that my dad was an alcoholic
I remember it wasn’t a short term condition but was, most definitely, chronic
I remember him going to the Windsor clinic so that he could go and “dry out”
And I remember the faith I had in him wasn’t in any doubt.
I remember how my dad went into Windsor twice but still did not recover
I remember knowing no matter what he’d get better one way or another
I remember I never blamed him for anything bad he said when he was drunk
And I remember I supported him all the way when he felt that he had sunk.
I remember when my dad smoked pot and when he got depressed
I remember when he was always sad, upset, angry, confused and stressed
I remember when my heart broke when he told me he wanted to die
I remember crying all the time, wanting to know why.
I remember I felt a failure to my dad, that in some way I’d let him down
I remember thinking I’d made his life so bad he wanted to die, felt like a clown
I remember how I imagined coming home from school, my GCSE results in hand
And only being able to show them to mum, not to both parents like I’d planned.
I remember my dad, both anxious and scared, admitted himself to Broadoak
I remember when he was in there, the first time on the phone that we spoke
I remember as always I told him I loved him and hoped I’d see him soon
And I remember the first time I visited and we sat in a posh living room.
I remember how scared I’ve been for my dad’s illness through the years
I remember all our times together, the laughter and the tears
I remember how worried I was that he wouldn’t be here to walk me down the aisle
I remember being terrified that I’d turn round and wouldn’t see his smile.
I remember a time when my dad told me that I was his very best friend
It meant so much to me to know I’ll remember it ‘til the end
Wherever my dad goes, whatever he does, whoever he’s become
He knows he only has to say the word and straight to him I’ll come.
I remember I never gave up on my dad, not once in all this time
To give up on him and leave him like this would be such an awful crime
I remember all our bad times together, but most of all the good
My dad deserves so much to be helped, deserves to be understood.
My dad’s so inspirational; an influence to our family is he
He can inspire anyone and everyone, but most of all me
He deserves to get better, deserves to be happy, deserves to be set free
From all his worries, stresses, concerns and just be who he wants to be.
My dad can always rely on me to help him all I can
No matter what he says or does, he’ll always be my favourite man
My pride for my dad and the journey he’s made is a good thing, not a bad
Because I’ll always be there for my old man, my father, my daddy, my dad.
By Rebecca Roberts
Dedicated to My Dad.
Brian's daughter, Rebecca Hughes, sent his poems to erbacce-press. Below is a poem which she wrote (in very much the same style as her Dad's) which she has asked us to include. NOTE: This poem is not in Brian's collection