My grandparents would phone us from England
Down here somewhere on the tip of Africa
On Birthdays, on Christmas, on special occasions
And my parents would call us to come to the phone
To speak quickly because the calls were expensive
And every second and every word mattered
Because they’d go through these cables under the sea
Across deserts and through cities I’d never visit
If people put their heads to the pipe, maybe they could hear them
Whizzing by, sounds and vowels skipping across the dirt
And they’d say “happy birthday, we love you, put your father back on,”
And I’d say “thank you, I love you, here he is.”
Here at last, we shall be free. 
I used to get those calls too, and the twice a year cards with Pounds scrunched within them. I miss my grandfather. I never met him, but those phone calls always held such promise. He would laugh. His delight was hearing my voice, and my delight was knowing he existed.