I prefer good posture. Yours is ballerina good
I prefer your eyes, all the colours of the Kea
(You have a hidden talent in imitating the Kea’s call)
I prefer family holidays where we are allowed to breathe
The campervan trip was a mistake

I prefer that you are cheerfully late, unlike the person waiting
I prefer the times you use less than four towels per shower
I’d prefer it if you knew that the white thing in the garage is a washing machine.
(If you are interested I can show you how it works.)

I prefer that you pay attention to your baking.
I prefer that your poems need no editing.
They are here in the now and so are you.

You have been here before.
I prefer that Ireland keeps an eye on all of its children.
The hills above Annascaul recognise your footsteps:
Welcome back, Child, says the sign
You remind me of how much I like the Welsh
I prefer that you prefer mountains
That Rakiura took you into her heart until you got to the South Sea hotel.
(What were you doing in the South Sea hotel?)

I prefer it when you are silly
I prefer to watch you do burpees
your legs too long for your arms
you look like a baby giraffe

I prefer that you use Bondi Sands with abandon
(and still you are the palest)
I prefer your random rules to get you out of things like running uphill.
I would prefer that you never take up darts or work in ER

I prefer that your friends are awesome.
And that they like me. Because I like them.

I would prefer my son to choose my nursing home,
because he will look harder for dust in the corners
He would prefer that you don’t keep thumping him
because you have no idea of your own strength.

I prefer, when you bake together,
that you do all the actual baking.
He eats too much of the mixture
and I’m not sure he washes his hands

I prefer that you tolerate your Dad like a Buddhist
when he overexplains physics
I prefer that once on Good Friday at a triathlon
you said you knew how Jesus was feeling

I prefer your ability to live your life
like lap three of the 1500m metres
when you need to.
I prefer watching you lolly scramble

I prefer that time we made jewellery together.
I imagined we were silversmiths from Celtic
kingdoms crafting treasure.
I made you a ring.

I would prefer that your sheet, duvet cover and pillowcases
are a matching set in the back window of the car when you leave home
I would prefer that you come round for Sunday dinner every week,
or failing that, just ring at 8 o’clock for a long natter

I prefer keeping the faith:
in the silence between
you being born and you being alive,
you were just taking your time.