by Emily Tucker

I will never again give you cigarettes.
You will breath freely and deeply,
And smell only of Rose by Paul Smith.
I know you feel like a diva,
Sat in a cloud of Malboro Gold,
But your juicy purple lungs deserve better.

I will forever make sure that you have appropriate shoes on.
Once appropriately shod I can walk you,
Straight into opportunity,
Directly away from negativity,
And maybe stop for a dance every once in a while.
(But never in a club in white trainers.)

I will never let you back down when you are right,
most of the time you actually are.

I will strive to feed you a rainbow of goodness,
flushed down with crystal clear water,
if Zone 3 taps can provide that.
I’ll also listen,
when you tell me that you need,
eleven gin and tonics and a bag of fizzy laces.

I will cover you head-to-toe in vanilla-scented moisturiser,
take you for regular haircuts,
leave your spots alone,
and sometimes give your nails a break from all that chrome acrylic.

I will let you watch crap TV,
and read you the trashiest of Tudor romances.

I will rejoice at the sight of you,
Delight in your soft little belly,
Marvel at your baby deer limbs,
And smile at your smile.
It’s pointy and it’s wonky and it’s good.

We will wake up every morning,
And I will tell you,
That you are worthy and kind and brave.
We won’t do those stretches meant for happy mornings,
Because those never were your thing,
But we’ll go out,
And we’ll have good days,
And we’ll have good nights,
And you will never doubt,
That I’ll always, always love you.

Emily Tucker |

Emily is a teacher of tiny children and secret writer based in North London. When she isn’t reading the Gruffalo aloud, she’s watching Dirty Dancing or writing on her film blog. 

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