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.