For my friend in the Calais Camp

It was easier before you were real,
just a silhouette by a foreign sun,
a figure hunched and alien.
It was easier when I’d not yet heard
the baritone tremor of your laugh,
or felt your hand - like ice - in mine.
When we'd not yet shared a joke
or choked back tears together.

But now, you are real, so painfully alive -
your story gnawing at my bones,
shaking my soul awake.
Now, all sense seems flawed.
Any idea of justice dashed.
For how do you deserve to fall like this
when I always land so soft?

Your thoughts seem fragile, brittle,
like your pain might crack if I were to tap you
or ask too much.
So we talk of happy times - your family picnics.
Rainbowed dishes peppered and perfumed,
a thousand miles from the tins I hand you.

You share your life stories with me.
The chubby toddler - with kisses like powdered sugar -
chasing all the neighborhood girls.
The overachiever, the teacher's favourite, first hand up in class.
The beloved son - wrapped in love - raised on whispers of peace and hope.
Then the terrified man, alone.

You ask me to write of your journey,
a chapter of which you cannot yet speak.
And I will try my friend, I will try.
But, my God, make it a happy ending
for I refuse to write you anything but.