Dividing the Blood

I scrolled past the blue glare of the screen

until the pixels settled into a face I almost knew.

There you are, in a stiff hospital chair,

holding something wrapped in white and pink.

It is the hand that stopped me.

The way your smallest finger bends inward,

a sharp, genetic detour at the knuckle,

hooked into the wool of the baby’s blanket.

I have that same mistake on my left hand.

A signature written by a father

who didn’t stay long enough to teach us

how to hold anything else.