She drags a chair to the fireplace
to reach
the don’t-touch pot;
climbs and stretches –
It’s hers
It’s heavy – two hands, careful – but not heavy enough
In her place, the yellow wigwam,
palm to china – too cold –
she tugs
A little dust pffs out from inside
fairy dust, Granny Jo would’ve said,
but it’s all grey, all wrong
She finds paper, black,
the crafting box
drizzles glue – loops and swirls
sprinkles glitter
sprinkles dust
That’s better
like fireworks and bonfire ash
in Granny Jo’s garden
with toffee-apple cheeks
Her father finds her
in her place
sits down very fast
ohgodohchrist
She says, do you see her?
He says, come with me
Flames spark in the don’t-touch stove
Fireworks are gone so fast
Look, the colours – she loved the colours
He says nothing
Later
after story-story-song
through the vent on the stairs
she watches him sweep out fiery dust
It sparkles.
