Jankel

I never knew you Jack, or was it Jankel,
but they named me after you. I heard you stank
of shtetl Jack, your accent made them call you
jew. You never ditched your Litvak twang,
my mother said. Your brothers with the knack
for shekls took you to the bank, bought you a desk,
a white coat and a stethoscope, made you Dr. Jack.
Oh Grandpa Jack, you crazy Stalinist, caught
on camera with the red flag, Edinburgh, May Day
nineteen-thirty-two, you Leftist hack, the man
whose eyes were sad and black, who knows
what you’d been through? You left me clues:
this, your scratched consulting desk, a streak
of melancholy, tracks of dust and sepia, your name.
These words are all that I can give you back.

– Jacqueline Saphra is reading at the Magma Poetry Showcase
2.45pm, 8 July, Burgage Hall