THE BOY WHO ATE ONLY BUTTER

 

as a boy, I ate only butter

thick golden slices straight from the fridge

or spooned

on unending summer evenings

as it pooled, left out

into winner’s medals

 

some nights it was impossible to tell

where sun ended and butter began

 

despairing

my parents lashed it on everything

but I steered a path around

wolfed it down before it melted in

I was a stubborn child

butter was all I craved

 

I was twelve when Mum

brought home something new-

I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter

just try it she said, sliding the tub towards me

we have to tighten our belts

with your Dad’s job uncertain

and TV insists it’s the same

 

sceptically, I lifted the lid

inside was what looked like mince

a scoop of mash, some terrified peas

a small portion of sherry trifle

and two sticky and loose After Eight mints

 

and people mistook this for butter!

I couldn’t believe it!

my parents hovered like fireflies-

hot-eyed and scarcely breathing

transfixed as I tentatively dipped

into that patchwork spread-

it was the oddest butter I’d ever tried!

 

and yet the strangest thing was this-

every time we ran out a new tub would arrive

looking utterly different to the one that came before it!

at times it resembled ham

or bananas, hazelnuts, cream cheese

spaghetti, green beans

and just once, dizzyingly, profiteroles

 

I told Mum I thought

I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter was magic

I’m not sure she understood

for whilst doing other things

she lightly ruffled my fringe

and said she thought I would

 

placing a new tub in front of me

her smile serene and buttery

she said it’s likely this one

has undertones

of fish cakes

 

copyright Ash Dickinson