Building my Grandfather

He comes flat-pack, a gift for my eighteenth.

We tip the bits out on the living room carpet:

nuts and bolts, a spanner, an Allen key,

tubes halfway between telescopes and weapons.

At first he goes together easily:

slippered left foot clicks into the ankle,

shin joins at a perfect right angle.

We have more of a problem with the right knee,

but my father remembers it was always gammy

from twelve-hour shifts, labouring in tight seams.

I fit the lungs, pumping in mustard gas

which filled each breath he took from 1918.

Something seems to be missing from the heart

and for a while we search beneath the sideboard,

but then my father says it’s probably

for the old man’s brother, who joined up when he did

and didn’t make it back. The cheek and neck

and nose slot in and soon, we’ve almost got him:

my father holds the lips, the final bit

before he opens his eyes and I meet him.

A glance in the mirror at what he’s going to see:

a pale-faced boy by an electric fire,

Nike swoosh like a medal on my chest.

It’s then I say Stop. What will he make of me?