Bread, Butter And Jam Poem by Ruth Walters

My father would rise at 5, be at work by 7,
his day would start to the
last glimmer of the moon and
he'd work well past sunset.
.
They'd revere his abilities, of course,
his tailoring was perfection,
but the pay was disrespectful,
pitiful.
.
He'd always polish his shoes,
I remember that
and bacon and eggs
meant he was late.
.
I'd creep down the stairs to see him.
If you're going to be late, he'd say,
be very late because the
scolding you'll get will be the same.
.
Each evening I'd wait for his key
in the lock,
his face would look grey,
his demeanour, exhaustion.
.
My mother's offerings
were mostly, inedible, burnt but she knew that,
so, he'd turn on his heels and
be off to the chip shop.
.
Her sweet, blue eyes
would look hurt but accepting,
'Make yourself some bread and jam' she'd tell me.
I loved bread, butter and jam.
.
.