You were so small, so miniature
So l-o-u-d in the indrawn hush blip-blip of the O.R.
Squashy red raisin, dark-headed...boy? Boy!
Your father held you in cupped hands, breath held, like Dresden
...I hiccoughed and tried not to let the amazed tears
shake my loose belly open where the surgeon was trying to close.
How is it possible that you're seven?
Seven is for big kids, for skinned knees and riding bikes and
well, you're so mine, whatever the age.
Happy Birthday, baby.
We are so glad you're here.