Effing Tomatoes

The following prose titled "Effing Tomatoes" has been written for my Dad, who is currently in hospital with a life changing condition. Thankfully, his condition is improving. and though he still has hurdles to overcome, he now hopes to come home soon. 

My Dad is a keen gardner. He does things 'his way' which is always the 'right way' and always to glorious effect. Home grown produce and an attractive, colour filled garden for us to play in, are amongst the happier memories of the childhood that my sisters and I shared.

This piece of writing began in the early, confusing, emotional time of Dad's illness. For a long time we didn't know whether we were in imminent danger of losing him. During this time, my Dads main concern was for his "bloody tomatoes!" I found this infuriating and was resentful that this was what he worried about above all else. My sisters were equally bemused. Powerless to help Dad in any real way however, our focus became the welfare of his tomato plants. 


EFFING TOMATOES 

They’re ripening without you.
Smug and fat in the greenhouse heat,
leaves brushing the glass
flourishing like they don’t know,
you’re lying in a hospital bed,
pale, wired, your voice so tired
still sending orders on their care - whilst you're not there.

"Check the vents, water early,
 pinch the suckers, don’t forget the feed".
 Your voice crackles out,
and we listen —
your three daughters lined up,
nodding like it matters.
Because it does matter.

Now it’s us, kneeling in damp heat,
talking to the plants, tending rows 
that don’t care who holds the hose -
but we do.
We hear you in our heads,
feel the weight of getting it right,
 like if they flourish,
you too might.

We argue gently, we resent,
We get it wrong,
We try again.
Your voice hangs in the warm green air,
more present here
than anywhere.

I used to mock how much you loved them,
how they always came first - your true legacy.
But now,
with your absence from the garden,
I know
They were something you could shape,
nurture, something you could grow.
A kind of hope - rooted in soil.

Effing tomatoes.
They grow as you fade,
stubborn, alive,
and for a moment,
I almost understand
why you love them.

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