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For Louis
Your father emails me. The photo shows
the usual tiny human, wrapped up tight,
although I recognise your mother’s nose
smaller and unpierced. The text is slight,
preoccupied, but feelings launch like birds:
He is a gorgeous little mite, and I’m
already daft about him. Helen’s fine;
amazing. So much in so few words.
It is traditional to play the seer
and speculate on what you’ll grow to be
as if the future can be settled here.
Sweetheart, I won’t presume; we’ll wait and see,
but I can tell what you already have:
a life where every thought for you is love.
Suzanna Fitzpatrick
If you have any comments on this poem, Suzanna Fitzpatrick would
be pleased to hear from you.
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