The first black man in Scotland

The first black man in Scotland

What boys we were.

Two innocents. Too young

but not quite young enough

to hide from truth.

And so we sheltered

where we stood,

behind the sideboard

in the kitchen

of that 60’s ‘room and kitchen’

in the grey east end

of no mean city

where he lived and worked

and died, the day

the first black man in Scotland

came to call.

A man as black as ebony.

Young with tight, black hair.

Obsidian eyes

in pools of white.

And yellow palms.

A voice like velvet.

We watched in awe.

We eavesdropped from our haven

as he told our father’s mother

how her husband fell;

redundant legs that buckled

as he clutched his chest

and raised a hand forlornly

to clasp the outstretched arm

of the first black man in Scotland,

who caught him

as he tumbled down to God

while they waited in a queue

for a bus that never came.

And as our father thanked

the first black man in Scotland,

then showed him to the door,

my father’s widowed mother

crossed the floor

to hold her hiding grandsons

in her arms. And weeping,

all colour drained out

of an empty, ghost-like face,

she said, oh boys,

your granda’s never coming home.

And we were mystified

but now a lifetime less

than innocent; lost

for words enough to say

what mattered on the day

the first black man in Scotland

came to tell the story

of our father’s father’s end.

But only this thought struck us

as we held our grandma tight:

We said, that man was black.

And she said, yes,

God bless him.

This month's poetry workshop in The Guardian has fathers as its theme. I stuck this in. It's not really about fatherhood but you never know.

.