For my Father

by Rosa Campbell 
 

The Persian place is repainting and I take after my father
because there is no part of this life I love more
than walking past its fresh lick into the Dublin morning
to buy two litres of milk we’ve yet to actually run out of
and unreasonably fancy bread. I know it’s an excuse
for late March sunglasses in defiance of the early air, the
arrogant lightness of being local – keys swinging
in feigned nonchalance, no coat. “It’s evocative,” he says,
about every single place we’ve ever been, “it reminds me
of the south of France.” I meet my mother’s eyes, and
my sister stifles a giggle, but when we went to Provence
I think no man has ever been happier; left arm browning
out the window of the hire car, spelling our surname
for table reservations the same way I catch myself doing
on the phone with the broadband company. And always
getting up early to go to the bakery, an excuse to return,
baguette tucked under brown left arm, just as we padded
downstairs to find warm pastries on unfamiliar plates.