To the Father Who Told Us No, His Daughter Is “A Healthy Kid”
.
I don’t blame you for being scared of us.
I am sorry that Cancer is written on our clothes,
our big purple cart, our ukuleles.
As you speak, I imagine you walking these halls
with your gaze magneted to the carpet,
trying not to see the other families
in rooms like yours.
As if you could carry the images of nose tubes
and round, smooth heads
like bacteria stuck to your sleeve,
back into the room where your daughter breathes.
She has a cast on her arm, black corkscrew curls,
the brightness of a future in her eyes.
We are a reminder of every parent’s nightmare,
the sentinels of the sick and sad.
To you, we do not belong here.
.
I want to tell you it’s ok.
I imagine how the world must have halted
to see her blood burst from her –
so brash, a shock of violent fragility.
How tightly fear must have cocooned your lungs.
.
But to you, our songs,
our smiles, are poisoned –
because we share them every day
with families who live for months, years,
within those seconds that stopped your heart.
I wonder if you realize the power
of your connection to others
who have felt death sitting at their child’s bedside,
the horror of each held-breath moment.
.
I want to tell you,
though (because)
you don’t want to hear,
that these children are iron-hearted. Their parents,
the humblest saints.
I want to tell you
that before all this,
they were healthy kids, too.