The stroke's fried his brains
says bread when he doesn't mean it
says yes when he means no or doesn't know

he speaks a language I can't decode
it leaves us with little to say
but the TV fills the silence
 
there are moments of lucidity
you too he gurgles waving his good hand
at meals urging me to eat more
 
the bad hand is a coiled spring gone wrong
I call it a flipper sometimes
and he a sealion, performing for his food
 
he has a trick, opening his yoghurt with one hand
he teases the foil cover open with his finger without a jerk
then looks at me pleased at his own dexterity
 
I should be more encouraging
say something like good or clever boy
but these are words for a dog, not a father
 
besides, I have no words for him
only questions he can no longer answer
why did you beat her, cheat on her
 
did you ever love her or me
but the stroke's fried his brains
says yes when he means no or doesn't know