Shaving my Dad's Stubble

Hello subscribers,

I lost my dad last year. And, as someone who loves writing, I’ve been wanting to write something about him for quite a while. His mum (my grandma, obvs) was a writer. She published a cookery book back when everyday people did not get things published. She owned a second-hand book shop. And she wrote personal essays (all of which I have in my possession) about the rugged beauty of Yorkshire and the tragic loss of her brother and three of her five sons. Even though I never met her—her name was Mary—she’s always been an inspiration to me, as you can imagine. I knew that when the time was right, then, I would write a little something about my dad. His name was Murray.

I had to wait a while first before I felt ready to try. Then, the first things I wrote turned out a bit too gushy and dramatic, so I shelved them and waited. The next things I wrote were less dramatic but more critical of my dad’s choices and lifestyle, which ultimately didn’t sit right with me. No matter how much I liked what I’d written, I couldn’t get it past the question of “Would he be hurt by what you’ve written?” So I waited again. The next time I felt ready to try, I was standing in a cute book shop in London called Chener Books, waiting for my mate to finish work, flicking through some random poetry books, when I realised—A-ha!—I could write a poem!

A poem felt like an easier way of dealing with my complex feelings and thoughts. Far easier, IMO, than attempting an essay. Poet David Whyte has written that “poetry is language against which you have no defenses.” And I think that’s as pertinent for the writer of poems as it is for the reader. I wanted to write about my dad, and find a way of expressing whatever it was that I needed to express, but I never wanted to do it whilst feeling defensive. Poetry has allowed me to do it. So here it is. It’s called Shaving my Dad’s Stubble. And it’s one of the loveliest memories I have of our time together at the end.

Shaving my Dad’s Stubble

He’s bone-pale
and skeleton-thin,
his fingers still stained black from Amber Leaf,
teethless, breathless, counting on the oxygen
to stop his failing lungs from suffocating him.

Only last spring he stood poised
at the entrance to Tesco as it opened at dawn.
Potatoes, milk chocolate and Carling in his trolley,
his bag topped with The Daily Mail
bearing his Man Utd score and crossword puzzle.

Now the nurses wash him in the bed
with a curtain drawn for privacy,
his bedpans are on rotation.
He urges us to close and open the window,
turn on and off the telly, again, and the fan.

For the first time in my life,
and his, I fetch some warm water,
buy Gillette from the hospital shop, borrow a razor,
begin lathering his neck with my fingers
while he tips his head back, eyelids closing.

I am careful not to cut him, as he asked me to be.
But his moustache stubble is thick; the blade drags
and he winces Mm! Ow!
Make sure there’s enough foam on, son!
And I continue shaving, changing the subject

teasing him in a confident tone:
You know? These ears look familiar
and I'll shave your beard but I won't wipe your arse
and the other things that quick-witted barbers
might say to their customers.

And no words at all
about how much
I love him.

⬥

my pops, Murray Moore