You won’t find me in Costa Coffee,One of the NCT crowd,
Clogging up valuable floor space with prams and carry cots,
A seated health hazard,
Legs splayed proudly.
You won’t find me espousing the benefits of breast milk,
Multi-terrain ‘travel systems’ and cranial osteopathy.
You won’t find me boring people with tales of the things you once ate but now don’t
Or of the things you once did, but now won’t.
You won’t find me boring people with tales of that one time,
that one time
You threw up in my face, and someone was there, and we, like, didn’t realise how much sick one baby could produce, and who would’ve thought someone so sweet could produce something so vile, and like, it’s amazing really, cos, like, it was so funny, and you, like, threw up,
And it was so funny
And, and, and…
You won’t find me desperately singing my heart out in front of thirty other parents just to connect with you,
You won’t find me suffocating you in bubble wrap just to protect you.
You won’t find me giving knowing nods to other Dads who pass me in the street
As far as I’m concerned
Our mutual power to impregnate someone we love, doesn’t mean that we should speak.
You won’t find me, daughter, taking you to baby/parent classes,
Just to discuss with boring middle class people what the best moisturising cream for your arse is.
You won’t find me doing any of this.
But you will find me.
Anytime you want me, you will find me.