Don't Tell Me

Don’t Tell Me

Don’t tell me what his bloody name is, for it’s not at all important

And don’t tell me how old he was, because I do not need to know

I don’t care what he was like to be with at his school

Nor which college he went to, or what subject he studied

Whether he was a good student or not

Don’t tell me all about his family

Of his mother grieving in her disbelief

Of his father long gone missing

Or of his brother now gone into hiding

I have no interest in his general profile

Of his background and how he was brought up

Don’t tell me about the places where he used to go

And do not guess at his beliefs, religious or otherwise

And spare us all the speculation on his motivation

The careful planning and the murderous intent

Don’t tell me whether he was a person of special interest

Or whether he was known to the security services

And do not talk of the limits on immigration

Or of second generation integration

Nor waste my time explaining the meaning of jihad

Or about the programmes to prevent radicalisation

Because none of that really matters now

In fact you can spare me the whole bloody back-story

Because I simply do not want to know

But tell me more about the victims

Their names and tender ages

Unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time

Caught out by the bomber’s blast

Who suffered and were caused to die

Tell me about the devastated families

Who will have to live forever more with grief unbounded

And to make the funeral arrangements

For their dearly departed loved ones

And tell me about the paramedics

The emergency services and the first responders

Those who risked their lives to try and save the wounded

Those whose job it was to pick up dismembered body parts

And to re-assemble them to make them whole again

To allow their formal identification

Tell me about the police and ambulance men

The forensics and the explosives specialists

Tell me about the homeless men who tried to help

The taxi drivers who offered lifts

The cafes that gave away hot drinks

And the hotel workers who offered rooms and blankets

I want to hear about these heroes, not that villain

And please - don’t tell me that I’ve got that wrong

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019