When I told my Dad I wanted to be a pope he smiled and put his arm around me.
I was 6 but looked much younger.
As the years passed, my calling to be pope concerned my Dad.
It concerned my Dad like mad.
When I was 8 I went with friends to a Pope party.
When I was 28 I realised it was just a birthday party for my friend.
Being 8 meant I saw the Pope in every one.
The Pope was real, but for a moment after the world of sport.
My Dad’s concern gave way to love and care.
Soon Pope pictures adorned the living room.
And Mum would make me Pope like clothes.
I didn’t become a Pope, not officially.
Better than that Dad said I looked like a proper Pope.
Then he’d laugh and then he’d cry and paw at my robes.
Oh you little Pope he’d say.
And I would take his hand and say yes Dad, I’m your little Pope.