Born and raised in the Midlands to dual heritage parents, Kate left home and school at the age of sixteen, with no education or understanding of her place in the world. After a good few bumpy years, she achieved her first GCSE at the age of twenty-seven and went on to gain a degree in literature and master’s in creative writing. Kate has spent the past seven years working in prisons across the UK using literature as a transformative tool. Her writing explores her relationship with her race, which has been uncomfortable and challenging over the years, as well as gender and motherhood. She lives at home with her husband, two children and four cats – Mildred, Mavis, Moe and Bean.

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Papa - by Kate Bramhall

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You do not wear a mask. 

You never did.

I understand now,

that it always belonged to me.

I now see that

you showed me who you were,

and I mistook it for an illusion.

Eyes always adoring

and never straying,

from your paper mâché cheeks.

I nurtured my mask for years.

Cased it in tissue paper.

Checked it for scuffs.

Polished it with love,

and gently laid it upon your face.

As I grow, from child to woman,

my arm, which is now strong,

tires. 

This mask, formerly alive with familiarity, 

has dropped revealing only cordiality

and I am beginning to see

what was once unclear.

The closeness and awe that thrived

in childish eyes,

now resides somewhere new,

and apart from myself.

Guarded only by old retainers

and cinema stubs, it sleeps with

the mask

gathering dust beneath my bed.

I understand as I watch you afresh,

that,

You are You,

a whole person in a whole life.

You do not belong to me.

That person never existed.

Now we must learn to survive,

maskless and alone.

Walking side by side, yes,

but naked

and no longer in time.