I want to tell you I believe I’ll survive this.
That I haven’t been updating my will
or receiving texts from the government
as a ‘high risk person’.
That dad isn’t a firefighter. That six of his colleagues
haven’t contracted the C word and are off work.
That he doesn’t lie in bed pre-empting my death
and how it could be his fault.
I want to say people have been kind.
That we haven’t had medical supplies
stolen by a delivery driver. Or that I haven’t
been experimenting with vodka down my tube.
That I’m not existing in a vacuum of touch,
haven’t tied my dressing gown tighter
to replace hugs. I wish I could say these things, but I can’t.