Son, I am afraid that inside of all of us
there exists a universe of misunderstandings
galaxies of doubt, hot burning stars of best intentions
I want you to know that these celestial creatures,
infinite in our chests,
are at the mercy of only our own creation
Because you, you are more than a collection
of my spare parts and yielding wire,
more than the silt of my eroded ambitions,
more than the grit of your fathers afflictions
You are no simple combination of our love,
no random recipe of genes and chromosomes,
you are the infinitesimal stirrings of
a new world.
