1954

My Grandad,
my friend,
when I play your records
I’ll think of you,
I’ll think about
how we used to sit on your sofa
and talk about Jamaica.
I’ll think about
the first time you showed me
your first passport picture.
I’ll think about the stories you told me –

You stepped off the boat and breathed in the British mist,
holding in hands heavy dreams
uprooted and upheaved onto three weeks of turbulent waters,
waving farewell to your mother and sisters
and infant too innocent to fathom his father’s intentions.

You paraded along new streets that you were told were paved with gold
in your black leather laced shoes that shone beyond cold fog.
You tipped your brim hat to other West Indians you passed,
they too wearing suits,
carrying suitcases
and ties tied tightly.

You shared rented rooms in houses built with bricks of brass,
with windows that wouldn’t glisten,
framed within window pane cracks
and a torn front door,
with a path surrounded by overgrown grass.

You pushed your shoulders back and held your head high
to walk through the intolerant tide,
to imprint new bricks for rebuilding British businesses.
Based at a Birmingham depot
you attended to broken down double decker buses.

You carried Jamaican rhythms in your suitcases,
unpacking ska music in your memories,
reminiscing on the routines that defined the dances.
You held your accent close to your chest,
turning down its intonations when you were loudly oppressed.

In your jacket pocket you carried a black and white picture of your mother,
she’s standing in a floral gown against the garden gate in Jamaica.
You pondered on your fathers status as a tailor,
you’ve taken the baton passed on from his legacy,
continuing the story with your journey.

Amanda Hemmings