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This poem is taken from PN Review 232, Volume 43 Number 2, November - December 2016.

Finding Dad Adam Feinstein
When did you stop being Dad?

While we were still puppies,
you stooped for us.
Our skinny thighs brushed
the sandpaper bristle on your cheeks
as you bounced us round the garden.

I never doubted you then.

In summer, you were
our captain at the tip of the punt
guiding us down the Cam.
You taught us to skim pebbles,
brought a hedgehog into the house,
explained how Darwin was right.

At home, you wanted to share:
you trailed a wire down the stairs
so we could hear your favourite LPs.
...


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