My dad waited for me to visit.
I was the only one that had moved away, money was tight, the kids were younger. We all wanted to see him, but my brother offered to drive me up to London to the hospice and we couldn't all fit in the car, so in the end it was just me.
My mum and both my brothers had been there all along, I couldn't, but eventually I got there in time to be alone with him, to say how proud I was of him, and how much I loved him. He couldn't move - mum said he was too ill to hear anything, but I know he heard me.
I said I'd be back, left the room to find mum, and after she'd been in again it was time to go, so my last words to him were wrong. I know he forgives me. He died at 8 the same evening, on Fathers Day.
I forget the date - I used to forget his birthday too (I even get the year mixed up,) but I can't forget Father's Day, and it makes me smile, I mean, what a way to make an exit - that's my dad!
God Bless you Ivor George, I know you're around, thank you. Happy Father's Day.