Take your pencil –
HB, 2B, red, yellow –
it doesn’t matter,
it’s a metaphor.
Put the point on the first dot,
on my crotch.
It’s awkward I know
but it gets worse;
it’s not my crotch but a symbolic representation of my father’s.
This is my starting point,
I am the product of my parents’ genes.
Follow from this dot to the next,
down the leg;
these first steps reflect my own
and these legs carried me through my late teens
as I hitch-hiked darkened streets.
Appropriate that I refer to my teens
as these lines we draw
return to my crotch.
Trace upwards from here to my heart
as a 21 year old me
found my future wife
and it’s fitting that the following dot is on my head
as I was forging my way through university at the time.
Draw from here down my arm,
pausing on my hand.
Of all the things that make me who I am,
this is possibly the most important –
I work and play with words.
These final dots work down my torso
and complete me at my crotch
just as I am completed by my children.
Remove your pencil and see me for who I am,
see me whole.