In an ecstasy of expectancy

one cigarette chasing another;

pacing from here to maternity

with a fellow debutant father.

A moonlit camaraderie

until the breaking of morning and water

and the end of our social lives.

 

It was time. Time to support

and I sought a solid to cling to:

your mother gave me her hand.

She were ever resourceful and thoughtful

and didn't swear quite so much back then.

"Bastard!" she hurled. Not in your direction;

at me, at God, at the female condition.

 

"It's a boy!" the midwife spoke with decision:

crimson-faced from the struggle you'd risen

with a head somewhat misshapen.

I quickly made a sign of the cross

and expressed my consternation.

She shrugged "That'd not so unusual

and he'll soon conform to type." 

 

I imagined we might ask an aunt to knit

balaclavas in claret and blue.

The placenta, however, was pleasingly striped

in maroon and white like the poles

displayed outside barbershops.

I thought of something for the weekend;

but it was Wednesday: too early or too late.

 

You were wrapped in a towel and handed

to me while your mother was being restored.

We called you Jack, had your name on a tag

and I wondered what position you'd have

and whether you'd be like everyone else

and complain that Bob Dylan can't sing.

You weren't to be like everyone else.

 

She wanted you weighed, I pulled back the towel

and the scales fell as my eyes lit

upon feminine bits! Just for a moment

I balanced the options, considering if I should snitch.

The midwife would be shamed; but might I be blamed?

Could I have got you lost or swapped?

But I'd never moved from off the spot.

 

So I spoke and showed and the midwife froze,

there was a pregnant pause...

and she humbled an apology. We laughed,

as if it could happen to anybody.

And you were gone, off without a cheerio,

you had your twenty minute cameo

then back to the substitutes' bench.

 

I don't think about you all that often,

wheel out the tale on the odd occasion;

for a chuckle - at your expense or at hers.

It doesn't really matter, I'm that kind of father:

superficial and insensitive,

be glad you didn't inherit it.

You'd have grown to hate me soon enough.