The Wee Hours

  
My mother was 

barely an adult:

twenty-one years old

when in the chill

dark of morning

he drove her

to the delivery room. 
It was too early

in the pregnancy for the birth. 
As she lay on the table

sheet draped over her belly

a nurse walked in and asked

“What’s wrong?”

No big belly there
In that wee hour

when I came into this world,

wrinkled raisin-like

under three pounds

wailing and wakeful 

I was born into 

Love. 
Terrified and joyful

my father cradled me in his hand. 

My head reached his finger tip

my bottom rested at the other edge

of his palm. 
My mother devoted herself

every couple of hours for 

weeks and months

endless exhausting

feeding the miniature

monarch

bleary but

believing 
She always believes in me

that I can be

and from that morning

to this birthday

I am

beloved.