Crossings
By Agata Palmer

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My father was a captain ordered to cross the Baltic in a boat

with a half-sealed bow door, barely watertight, but luckier

than the Zeebrugge ferry, which capsized when water poured in,

drowning one hundred and ninety-three of its passengers.

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The responsibility perforated his stomach, ulcers flooding his gut

with blood while our relationship was already haemorrhaging.

He survived but, seen as added stress, I wasn’t allowed to visit –

I emigrated across the sea to create enough distance between us.

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None of it matters right now, as I’m floating down the River Avon

drenched in summer birdsong, in the slow flow of a Sunday morning,

with a friend beside me, our things bundled inside a high-tech sack

for an easy swim, even though we are carrying everything we need.

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Suddenly I’m thinking about that dark night on the Belgium coast

the people thrown from The Herald into the English Channel –

and refugees falling from their rafts into the Mediterranean,

after making the impossible choice to leave, now unable to float.