I saw your play

with your mother and father

and your brother too

without much interest.

we said it was good

of course,

because what else are you supposed to say?

I told you I liked it

and even named parts I'd liked -

a lot of it

was good too

even though some of it hadn't been so much.

I wanted to like it

and I wanted you

to like me.

then you told me

they'd fucked with the script

and my misgivings were right.

they were children.

they must have decided somewhere along the way

that it was easier,

better to do something

a child would understand.

you had been paid 50 pounds for the script.

that's not much

but a lot for the theater

when you're starting out

and you were angry

and then you didn't want to hear my opinions

even though the things I had liked were all things you had done.

and it was Edinburgh

and I think 2010.

I met your brother for a cigarette

and he agreed

with all of it.

he agreed with me

and you,

but you thought I didn't know.

you were right

I never knew.

I just wanted you to be happy.

you just wanted me to go away.

you had written a play,

got it put on,

beaten people out of it,

and that wasn't enough;

you wanted me gone,

wanted the poetry,

wanted the words

to all be you.

you wanted me gone

I know the feeling.