Sunday Dinner

My Nan grew up in wartime

And thought nothing goes to waste

And sometimes Sunday dinner

Wasn’t really to my taste

 

I loved to go to her house

And most of the meals were great

But at times I really struggled

To eat the food upon my plate

 

Her Shepherd’s Pie was awesome

And I loved cold meats and cheese

She made Special Fried Potatoes

That always made me say “More please”

 

But every now and then

The dish that truly gave me shivers

I couldn’t even stand the smell

Of Nan’s boiled chicken livers

 

I pushed them all around the plate

And covered them with sauce

Tried to mix them with potatoes

But it didn’t help of course

 

In the end I had to say

There really was one choice

And though I knew it would be hard

I mustered up my voice

 

“Nan – I don’t like boiled chicken livers”

 

There was a moment’s silence

And my eyes were opened wide

Nan looked at me and gently smiled

“Just push them to the side”

 

After that no chicken livers

Were served at Sunday dinner

And we had all the other lovely things

My tastebuds were the winner

Sioban Timmer

• Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #20