Not knowing or caring who my father was
until I was in my eighties,
I am glad to say that when I was young
there was no oppressive obscenity of
Fathers' Day to make me squirm ;
and springtime Mothering Sunday* had not been
so profitably raped and vulgarised by Hallmark.
Now, as a happy three-times-failed abortion, I re-affirm
that while the celebration of fatherhood repels me,
there was no point in my crying over spilt sperm.
*The one day in the year, apart from Christmas,
when an agricultural worker or a girl 'in service' could go home,
with some of the money earned, and fond regards,
if their mother was still alive and not far away.
I now propose a 'Failed Abortion Day'
with pretty pop-up cards.
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