'Pumpkin' Faced.

My father used to love me,
He said I was his world,
He'd look at our fingers,
Intertwined and curled.

Then one day he stopped smiling,
His face grew palely drawn,
His demeanour failed him,
He seemed so sad, forlorn.

I tried my best to please him,
To make him laugh and grin,
But all he did was stare at me,
As if I were his sin.

Then I came home to find him,
He held it in his hand,
A carving knife and shining plate,
I didn't understand.

He said, 'I'm going to carve you,
'And once I'm done, you'll see.'
He advanced with glinting eyes,
Towards a frightened me.

And now I sit before him,
A pumpkin-faced, grim mess,
He cannot even glimpse at me,
To my face he will confess.

All I wished was love,
A father's note to son,
Instead I got the equivalent,
Of my forehead pressed to gun.