Sunday afternoon

I would love Sunday afternoon
when Granny would
come.
She would always say
How's my little plum.'

Her warm embrace and tender
caress.
I could smell the flowers that graced
her dress.
Her lipstick deep, radiant red.
A kiss print always left upon
my head.
(which always made me giggle)

Sometimes I noticed a bruise or
two.
And sometimes I recalled more than a
few.
As a child I was so
confused.
But now I know poor Gran was
abused!

Close behind and in her shadow
stood my Grandad.
One I wish I never had.
His dark blue eyes, deeply set
The welcome words I never forget

'KEEP YOUR MITTS OFF MY JAM JAR!'
referring to his shiny car.
The Morris Minor in racing green
shining perfect, squeaky clean.
His pointy finger with such
intent,
an angry message with a scary scent.

Unfelt love no warm embrace
just a disappointed face.

I imagined melted tar
that I would smear all over
that car,
maybe a fair exchange for Grannies
scar?