I wonder what my father thought
When he was first told the news of me
Was he happy to be a father? Thrilled?
Did the words “I’m pregnant”
Bring a smile to his face?
Did he hug my mother with loving tenderness and assurance?
And say “I love you?”
Was his life complete?
Were his words genuine?
Or was their doubt in his eyes?
Did he pretend to be happy?
Feign sincerity?
Was his first instinct to run?
To give false words while he planned his escape?
Was I a mistake in his eyes?
Unwanted for the commitment I required?
A headache? A financial burden?
A party pooper or some rain on his parade?
Did I interfere in what was to be his life?
Was I to blame?
Not even a child yet
I was just an idea conceived
A possibility, an unknown future
Nameless and barely visible
On the folds of my mother’s stomach
A few trimesters short of being real
The race to my life had not even begun
To be, I had to cross the starting line of the womb
My age was negative nine months
Counting upwards to zero
I was D-day for the man who would be my father
For she had already begun to be my mother
She fed me, nurtured me, sheltered me
She was my home, my nest
I was a part of her
I could hear her, touch her
Kick her and feel her
My existence was hers
For I knew not of a father
But he knew of me
