My Dad’s a Goldfish – whose memory?

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Whose memory?

You watch as I slather honey
on toast already oozing butter.
Eyes gleam with anticipation,
widen in delight at first bite.
You would have spread
both less thick, enjoy my generosity.

‘I used to keep bees,’ you say.
I nod, recall my Islay childhood
of honey combs dripping sticky amber
liquid gold, taste of honeysuckle,
heather. Your beeswax discs
slippery smooth won prizes.

You’re confused. How do I know these things?
And I understand this morning
I am not your daughter. I am
some random woman who gives you
toast and honey and tries
to claim your memories as hers.
Mary Smith