Still There

At midnight, cleaning the mirror,

I notice them—small smudges

at chest height. Your hands trigger

this moment, these small budges

of oily skin-print where you stood

looking at yourself, trying to see

who you're becoming. I understood

when the calendar said it would be

her time this month, next month.

You won't be here. These prints

won't reach this spot. You'll be tall,

taller. I rinse the glass. These hints

of you—I leave them. Don't wipe

them clean. That's not what cleaning means

anymore. That's not the ripe

moment I'm after. Just these scenes—

small marks that prove you were here,

your body in this room, your hands

on this glass. I'm still your father, dear,

even when the custody commands

keep you away. The fingerprints stay.

Proof you were here anyway.