I Made You . . . (April Fool's Day Challenge)

by Jon Davies

There's bird crap on your shoulder.
I made you look, from ages
round four to forty, finger
from chest to nose. Your mother--
her knack for laying smack on
your clothes, your graduation
in front of classmates, dirty.
At times I made jests truthful
so that you'd not be certain
what was, what wasn't. Guessing--
the part liked best by others.
We laughed a lot.
that time when you were seven:
I said your bike was stolen.
For days you moped, your knuckles
to eyes, those tears you cast off.
A week gone past I rode it.
You ran to greet the cycle
as if it were your lover
returned from war.
                            That lassie
you liked, aged twenty-seven.
I said your friend got carnal
with her. I said it often.
I made you ask her, made you
believe so much you wedded
that girl to keep her.
expired three times before the
conclusive real Mr.
Death came. Our home burned down, I
explained. You trekked twelve counties
to find me playing golf in
the yard, dog Sparky slapping
at flies atop the stairway
escorting to the cottage
all there, intact.
                       You cheat with
a stripper--joke I told to
your wife. I didn't know that
she couldn't take a goof. She
departed, left with both of
your lads. Who needs a lady
like that?
              Today I call you.
You haven't come in twenty-
odd years. I say I'm dying.
You hope it so. You hate me.
But when I start my crying,
you say, "Just kidding, Daddy."
Not sure if you are sneering.
Don't mess with me, my laddie.
I'm practical, a joker.
Remember, kid, I made you . . .