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May 21, 2018 | by  | in Creative Writing |
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Dear Daddy Dave

It’s 11pm and I’ve just finished laying out tonight’s dinner — bangers and mash. The usual. I’ve laid the table with our plates, cutlery, and Veisguy wheat beer, when he knocks at the door. I rush to it, just as he enters. There he stands, his mouth slightly quirked in that adorable smile. Like he’s had some kind of stroke. Yes, even his mouth leans a little to the right. He’s so perfect. It’s a wonder he isn’t a hologram. But no, he’s real alright. He is so real.

“Yeah, g’day,” he says, in a softer tone than his stance on taxation.

“How was your day?” I respond, wincing at the harshness of my voice compared to his.

“Struggling with Jacinda. The bloody Auckland Regional Fuel Tax impedes the freedom of the individual. 12c is just too much to ask, and she knows it! The good people of Epsom have it hard enough.” I  smile reassuringly, but I watch his face contort in anger.

“But you represent them David. They are so thankful for that.” He pauses. His anger softens somewhat, and he gives a stiff thumbs up before moving through to the dining room. He sits at the table as I take a seat on the floor opposite. Much like the Act party itself, we only have one seat. I watch as he looks down at the meal I’ve made. Two burnt sausages rest on mashed potato more loosely formed than his performance pay for teachers’ policy. He smiles, and I melt.

Oh, David. When will the good people of New Zealand realise that you are their redemption?

There are 87 peas lying next to the potato, as always. They represent the number of seats that my Seymour deserves. I watch as he eats them, one by one. He respects each of them as an individual. When he reaches the last pea, I sigh to myself.

“You deserve so much more.”

“I’m sorry?” He responds, the final pea raised to his lips.

“David my love. I don’t understand. Why are the people of Epsom the only ones who recognise your individualism for what it is?”

“It’s alright poppet. Someday they’ll all be enlightened by their Charter School education.” He places the cutlery softly on the table. Reaching up to his shirt, he pops the top button loose, freeing the base of his neck. I watch his eyebrows twitch momentarily as he returns to his meal. Once he’s finished we place the dishes and cutlery in the dishwasher and head upstairs to bed. In our room, there are two single beds. David knows to respect my individual rights. He removes his checked maroon pyjamas from his drawer and gets changed, slowly. Once he’s finished, he puts his socks back on his feet before getting into bed. I do the same, and we lie there in silence. Staring at the roof. I listen to the rhythm of his breath and it matches that of my heart. I turn to see him clutch at his pillow, tighter than he does to the National Party. My consciousness wanders, and I sink into sleep, but just before I do, I hear him whisper: “Own your future…”

and with those words I feel a warmth engulf me, as visions of his Dancing with the Stars victory emerge to carry me through the night.

Salient is currently exchanging 600 words of David Seymour fanfiction for approximately $1,000,000 Dave Bucks. Expressions of interest can be sent to editor@salient.org.nz.

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