I ran into his arms before he could park his bike

& we almost tipped over. He lifted me so high

my head brushed branches of the guinep tree.

For years, I’d imagined this, his breath on my

face, coarse palms squeezing my shoulders. Dad

in his Clarks & Corduroy, spliff hanging from the

side of his mouth, smoke ascending into his

dreads as he lowered the seat of his bike so my

feet could touch the pedal, not letting go until I

was ready. We rode up the street to the barber

-shop. Barber handed Dad his tools. I’d imagined

this too: Dad’s fingers tilting my head to various

angles, each strand of hair a concern, taking his

time until beams of light burst from my fades,

blinding onlookers. No one was home when we

got there. In the kitchen, Dad cleaned & chopped

callaloo while I kneaded flour. Showed me how

to add a little water at a time to make the dough

firm, how to break it into equal pieces, flatten

them in my palm & use my thumb to press small

valleys in their centre. Only Dad believed I could

do this. Dad put lumps of coal from the fire into

the hollow of the old iron, wrapped a kitchen

towel around its handle, spread my khaki pants at

the edge of the bed, said ‘Yu must keep pressing

until all wrinkle gone.’ That day even my loafers

were the sleekest they’d ever been. Dad could

not read but the day he came home he knew the

answers to my homework. But I wasn’t thinking

about school or the next day. At nightfall, we sat

under the guinep tree in the front yard, still as the

skyline, father, son. No one was home to disturb us.