in the dream, i had a daughter.
she was mine in the way a thing can only be yours
when you've made it. when i woke, she was gone
& i was pulling at the sheets saying
where's my baby, i want my baby,
my mouth animal with it,
my hands clawing the dark like it owed me something.
my stepfather never asked to be called that.
he was just there. at the table. teaching me how to
park in a lot slick with gasoline & wet snow.
we share the same spit, he says when i offer him
a sip of my costco pop. it’s okay because
we share the same spit.
he fathered me the way you'd build a house—
one board, then another, then a roof.
no ceremony. just the work of it.
i want to father someone.
& once, i tried to explain it—
how blood felt like a trick. how i wanted to be
the kind of body that could make a body,
& when i say it aloud now,
i still don't have the answer.
in the dream, my daughter had two small palms
blistered by the monkey bars i taught her to climb.
she laughed & i knew her.
when she vanished i was frantic.
where's my baby. i want my baby.
maybe grief is just love with no place to go.
maybe fathering is staying when you could so easily walk away.