Birthday Parties

The first time we have cake, a candle,

invite all our own friends,

unwrap presents on her behalf,

drink champagne.

Then gatherings in the garden, the village hall.

Pass the parcel, rigged so every child wins a prize. 

We try and avert the inevitable tears. 

The anticipation so great no party 

could ever live up to it.

We serve chocolate, rice crispie cakes,

unlikely coloured jelly. Give the guests

bright printed bags containing

plastic tat and more chocolate.

Today there are faces I have never seen,

deep voices and acned cheeks,

gangling limbs carrying sleeping bags

cram sardine-like into her room.

I provide pizza and pungent cheese

that echoes the smell seeping out

under her locked door. 

I stand my ground and refuse to buy

even one Bacardi Breezer,

but wonder if I should have served

a plate of condoms.