For his fifty-fifth birthday,

I sent my father a postcard —

a Japanese painting of

an elephant

painted in grey and gold.

Brooding and still,

amidst a room full of monks,

in their saffron silences.

I left a note:

‘For the elephant in our room.’

Miles away, my father wondered:

who is the elephant —

him, me, or the years

of silence between us.

published in Parentheses Journal, May 2019