And neither am I, yet I say,‘I’ve found you, Tata!’ A line I’ve practised for days.For months. Tata’s whistle I recognise,But I don’t recognise Tata. He has a weak beardWhich stops him from smilingAnd he is thin. He looks at the woman Who says, ‘I know.’ But what does she know? She takes the child upstairsAnd I hear crying – Coming from the woman,Not from the child. Tata leads me to the large kitchenAnd makes hot chocolateUsing a clean, steel kettle.‘It is hard thing to explain – to a child,’ he saysWithout looking at meTo see how much I’ve grown. I don’t listen much. His little bee sting words Hurt. Tata peels an orange,The skin coming away In one expert movementCreating a bitter coilOn the counter.He splits the orange in two,Rests one half before me,Eats the other half himself,Pips and all.Tata looks at the clock above the sink. The hot chocolate is untouchedAnd coldIn the cup. I am cold tooSo I stand to leave.
