It is hard to avoid sentiment when raising your father from the dead. Tears slide, laughs rise. I see him in his greasy work clothes, an old felt hat dipped over an Irish eye. I see his map of a face patched with skin-grafts; and the triangular smile— “Stop that!” the critics say, “forget the detail, don’t be physical, it’s rather disgusting, everybody has parents, many of them are dead, be general—discuss parenthood— describe, if you must, a grave, but leave out the eyes and smile.” But he sits there in the kitchen, rolling a fag, smiling a welcome, and…