Recessive Gene
Hokey Pokey ice cream starred with honeycomb the same colour as your freckles which are not freckles or kisses from angels but a spattering of love from when my elbow shook when I cooked you.
You came out like that, your name matching your hair as if you knew and sent me smoke signals via the agony of trapped wind.
Connect the dots, the exuberances of an eternity of ginger warriors; your MC1R gone wild with recession.
Your aunt and granddad and other great grandma you never met because they flew like moths in a candle, wild red and gone.
But this is love. Your dad and me. (Rr) x (Rr) equals you, (rr), curled up inside a morning book with your amber halo all tousled like so.
✉
