parka
your brother’s made friends with two boys down the road
who are your own background
with their parents from the villages in Punjab
they’re in his year and they’ve been mixing languages
till they giggle their heads off
slipping from rugged London to farmer’s Punjabi
sat sri akal mate – how’s yor old man, mate
he’s all teek – thanks for aaskin dohst
they’ve invented a new speak and you’re in awe
cos you won’t mix suitcases like that with Nigel
your dad, a champion wrestler destined
for the Olympics – except it was amateur stuff,
was told to come over here
for the Sterling slog in Bison’s concrete factory
he’s always at work early and back late
overtime either end and at home half-cut
he’s not gone yet and loiters in his work boots
then empties two raw eggs in two glasses each
and makes you both swallow them down
when you gag, he says you’re both koories, girls
he stands over your brother, who’s older than you
by two years, and says that he’s not to walk
with those boys anymore, one’s a carpenter
caste and the other’s from the cobblers
he won’t have word getting out that juts, landowners
are mixing with riffraff
so when they knock for your brother
the shoulders of your dad narrow the frame
as he tells those ten year olds not to mix with his son
their tiny heads shiver in the hoods of their parkas
everyone knows your dad’s the best arm wrestler
in the factories – they help their own dads
by not walking with your brother again