BBQ Bike

I wish 
I had thrown 
My arms wide open 
And embraced you 
And thanked you 
And kissed your cheeks 
And thrown out a smile 
Instead of a wobbly lip 
And tantrums and tears 
So I didn’t have to 
Watch yours fade 

I wish 
I had thrown away 
My silly childish dreams 
Of sleek, sporty, sparkly 
And had instead loved that 
Chipped maroon-painted frame 
And the old-fashioned basket 
And the rusted rack 
On the back 
The size of a family grill 

I wish 
I had it now 
So I could ride it 
Far far away 
Then fly back home 
Breathless and joyful 
To throw my arms wide open 
And embrace you 
And kiss your cheeks 
And thank you 
All over again 

The story behind the poem

When I was ten, or thereabouts, my father came home one day and told me to go to his uncle’s around the corner for something. When I got there, I was presented with a surprise – my father had bought me a bike. Only, it wasn’t the bike of which I had been dreaming and for which I had been petitioning. It was a second-hand purchase from a pop-up market on a recreation ground somewhere in Leicester, in a style more suited to a fifty-year-old woman than a ten-year-old girl.
I went home and my dad looked at me excitedly, awaiting my response. I would like to say I made a valiant effort to be happy about it, but I don’t think that would be a faithful retelling of events. I knew he had gone to a lot of effort to get it, and that it was a big thing to do when we had so little money, but I couldn’t pretend to be grateful. Within moments, I burst into tears and the smile of anticipation he had on his face disappeared. My rejection broke his heart.
My siblings had a sharp, wicked sense of humour and with one look at the monstrous rack on the back of the cycle, they nicknamed it Barbecue Bike. BBQ bike didn’t stay around for long but the story did, as family legends tend to. And the moment my father’s smile faded stayed with me too, breaking mine whenever I remember it. I wish I could go back and do things differently, but I can’t. None of us can with our regrets in life. The only thing I can do is to thank him properly now, the way I should have done back then. This poem is a way of doing so. Sorry, dad, and thank you x.