If I look at my work through my father’s old lens,

I can only see fatal flaws.

If I look at my work, check down and not up,

I’m only fit for a crippling critique.

If I view my work through his envious look,

I can sense his blue eyes go glazed:

his look can melt my cast-iron talent

to a wobbly, kiln-broken mess.

But the lens through which he has cast his spell

has been buried five years and ten.

At what point can I say ‘enough’ to his hold,

and deny his dream-hogging blitz?

My real dad’s been dead a decade and a half.

But the inner one just can’t let go.

OK, so I’m loyal to my daddy by birth.

But there’s a time and a place for loyalty and guilt.

Instead of looking down my father’s old lens,

perhaps it’s time to write my own script.