Hand me Down Dad

He is the man who wore cans on his feet.

Or so I am told. It's a memory
older than my memory could ever be.
A you mory
not a me mory

Imagine the details of her story
that has become hisstory.

Wash away bean juice, grass cuttings.
Reveal slices of Spam flesh
cold, night-damp, his instep
slit by jagged slippers.

And a tin
which I do remember as more dangerous then;
ring-pull less, crudely hacked open;
"Mind the lid! Put it in the bin!"
you warned.

("For Dad to wear?")

He is the man who took the lid off
a mini car.
Had a rush of blood to the head
circular sawed it down to matchbox drawer.
Windscreen less and waterlogged
he drove until concerned police
showed him hard shouldered compassion
escorted him back home.

But this is all second hand memory
of my hand me down Dad.

I remember kicking him in frustration.
And the silence that followed
His and the bruises.

How did something as gentle as a
stroke
stop him talking to me?