N

I do not say,

‘Today, I will write a poem

about a flute,

or wallpaper,

or the letter Q,’

although, I now realise,

this is exactly what I have just said.

Yesterday, as I wrote –

not about a flute,

or wallpaper,

or the letter Q –

I noticed that a clumsy capital N

of mine

looked identical

to the clumsy capital N

of my father’s;

the clumsy capital N

which started the second half

of his illegibly scrawled signature

on his marriage certificate.

The awkwardness of my handwriting

is a tedious thing.

That my e is indistinguishable from a c,

or an undotted i,

is the least of its problems.

My pencil jerks across the page

with two left feet,

failing to keep pace

with whatever thought is currently being let loose,

and often,

while this is happening:

blunders, blunders, everywhere.

There is not a single letter

which hasn’t concussed itself

as it’s fallen out of my pencil;

each minor head trauma

making the letter look

not quite itself,

as it balances ridiculously

on the line.

My disregard

for legibility

is not a constant thing:

some of my redrafts

are as legible and consistent

as any handwriting fusspot

could hope to see.

Oh, yes, I can write neatly

when the words are already there,

and I can see from my father’s notebook,

that this was the same for him,

another little clue about how we may be connected.

And so I dwell

on why the signature on his marriage certificate

was so hastily scratched, so illegible,

so like mine when I am elsewhere,

while my hand is in the room,

holding the pencil.