My blood dad took photos for the paper.
Before he took photos he had to hit Holland
with the Lincoln & Welland.
At 20 years old he was almost a dead man.
I’m the accidental son of a soldier who survived
a bad case of Bren gun carrier blow-up.
I’m the bastard son of a soldier who survived
no such thing
as post-traumatic stress disorder,
but bore the load of survivor’s guilt.
It hung round his neck like a ton of Leicas.
Dreams of his first assignment
would wake my blood dad screaming.