The Letters

I’m a hoarder and I know it’s genetic.
My father left reams of strong brown paper,
a legacy from every package ever opened;
plastic cups from Great Western station buffets,
for growing seedlings, which he never bought,
and tiny, useless bits of string
from tying climbing roses to lattice by the door.

I, meanwhile, have every love letter
from all the boys and fewer men
who courted me, or I them.
Letters written on pale Basildon Bond,
or cream vellum with feint watermarks,
and decorated pages torn carefully
from sketchbooks marked with paint.
There’s one, which I so treasure,
written on a ten bob note and signed
with big bold kisses in black marker pen.

Letters from you on airmail paper are gathered
in little blue bundles with sweet Valentines,
and other tokens; notes on ticket stubs and Rizzlas.
Then there are the apologies and desperate pleas
scrawled on scraps found in your pockets late at night.
All of these, the jetsam from our years together,
are packed tightly in a battered cardboard box
marked ‘Fragile – This Way Up’.
What will the things I leave behind
say to those who find them?