Single Mum

Not on the beach or in a villa,

not on the tube or a train,

not in the sun in a park in East London,

or at Borough Market in the weekend rain,

will you wake up,

puffy eyed,

eggs runny,

while time sips tea,

and drawers of utensils cry for a roast,

feeling more complete

than when you are home.

This is a home I built with well-deserved helpings of brown sugar,

where dreams are discussed over coffee.

Where little-feet,

on-repeat,

tap-against-chests,

a little nose making noises,

tissues poised to catch dribble.

This is a home I built and continue to build,

and one day I'll share it with you.