I could spend some time looking at you

In fact, I do 

You’re already on my wall 

And in my phone (you’ve made it to the screensaver)

And yeah, your footprints will probably turn into wallpaper

You’re just black and white in the shadows

But via the ultrasound technology, I see your hollows 

And at 21 weeks, I feel you flutter 

When talking about you, there’s an excitement 

I stutter

You’re curled up, somewhat like a roly-poly

Your little feet are crossed at the ankles

Your arm is splayed over top your head 

Maybe you’re practicing to be an Olympic goalie?

Or just chillin’ in the storm 

Of my black cup of coffee this morn’

Do you like coffee? Will you like coffee?

This afternoon I had decaf 

With a touch of sweet cream

Can you hear me laugh?

I look forward to holding you

Though I’m nervous about you coming through

And I’ve consciously decided to refrain from putting any sort of prefixes in front of your name

Like “little” or “baby” or “sweet”

You’re one of a kind, unique

In time you’ll understand what people speak

Don’t let it taint you

Remember the power of thank you

I inspect your humerus, your wrist and fingers 

Your tibias and toes

And on those crossed ankles I could linger

My dear, we’re all born with a billion I don’t knows

You don’t need lip gloss

Don’t trust boys in black cars (though your dad is one – that’s a poem for another time)

Your formation, your birth, is better than the stars

I’ll teach you what I can 

In 20 or 30 years you can show me how to use the latest technology

I’m sure in time, you too, will ponder eschatology

I hope we can talk that over together

With some coffee soon enough

Know again, my child, that at times this life can be tough

Cross those ankles and fold those hands

When you don’t understand

God will give you sight

Because like coffee and creamer

Like a mother who is a dreamer

Like a life in the womb

Nothing is black and white