He was always at sixes and sevens.
"Awkward sod," said his father.
"Worse than the cat for getting
under yer feet!" - Well,
that was his mum.
It made me wonder: did anyone
bat on his side?
"Don't get it from me, that's a fact!"
(And that was his Dad.)
"I don't have bother with words!
Never did have!" All true.
They were all lined up at the ready -
ready for picking on Sam:
"Ham-fisted, cack-handed bugger,
no son of mine. Left-handed, see. Evil -
don't forget evil, not when you're
pointing your finger at me! Mark
of the devil, that is.
And none of my doing!"
For "evil" and "awkward" read eyes
and the limbs not fully in synch.
A difficult birth; some damage was done.
"Why can't you let him just do his drawing?
Stick him somewhere out of your way.
Paper and crayons, he's happy for hours!"
There was no going back after that.
What had been between them was gone.
Sam abhored drawing,
so how could his dad
imagine he loved it? Sam was distraught
and outraged, convinced
that his father knew nothing of him.
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