Waiting at the school gates my hopes impaled on their tridents. I would stand near kind looking Fathers Who wore soft cotton sweaters and gleeful expressions for siblings who lovingly embraced them. The ones who picked me last for soccer, where were YOU Matthew? Opening birthday cards, clinging to printed sentiments hurriedly signed by Mummy’s new Daddy for the bastardized scion. Blowing the candles on a bitter cake. Making a wish for the day to end, so I could dream of living with a man called Matthew who’d call me son, and read to me at night animated not forced. I am a man now Matthew What the fuck are you? Writing monthly cheques for spawns of sticky fumblings who wait by a school gate for you. I have a son now Matthew who meets me at the school gates he captains their soccer team And last night I watched him play. I Cheered his name, my name – Connor, he lost Matthew but won the affection of twenty Fathers: and your bastard Matthew.