I can count on the fingers of your tiny hand
The days that I have known your face.
But not the number of days that I have loved you.
That would require many more fingers and toes, like an octopus.
Your pink plump cheeks swell with every kiss I give
And you turn, open-mouthed.
I pretend it’s because you want to kiss me back
But really it’s because you think there might be a nipple there
And in your world, nipples mean food.
Your soft fingers slowly clench and flex
Like some kind of baby sign language that I don’t understand.
Your dry black stub of umbilical cord is pretty gross
But I still love you loads, my princess.
You are my little lady, but so unladylike
As you burp and fart and wee everywhere
And vomit on my shoulder
A thick white gloopy expression of love.
It’s like you’re saying ‘Thanks for making me, dad
‘(With a bit of involvement from mum)
‘And thanks for the cuddle, it means a lot. Sorry about the puke,
‘But I feel compelled to warn you
‘That pretty soon
‘I’ll poo everywhere.’