Loaded with unwanted reality,
Of eligibility for disability parking permits,
And carer pension applications,
Our little boy sits behind three candles,
Atop his birthday cake.
And I can’t help but not want him to grow up.
Selfishly for my own weakness,
And pounding denial.
Yet I am lifted by sheer love,
At seeing his face light up,
With such excitement for the world,
And the prospect of cake,
And can’t help but also be excited,
For everything that he is.
And everything he will become.
And I’ll weep later,
Over ticking the box yes,
To Does your child have a disability?
To the recognition –
While set out as a concession to benefit –
Is plagued with stigma,
Is a punishing declaration,
That I’m just not sure I am ready to accept.
And honestly have no idea how to deal with.