To My Unborn Son

Looking good out there, boy. Sometimes I wonder if it doesn’t even matter what I do as your dad, in the end you’re gonna hit the road and do what you’ve always thought was right. I can beat it through your head all I want but you’ll still need to be proven wrong. I can’t wait for you to have a teenager of your own.

Remember to keep your feet in line with the plate. You’re almost taller than me, sheesh. I’m glad you got a better physique than I do naturally. See I had to work for my arms, but your momma got good blood, too. Your sister’s watching, you’re probably stressing that, that’s why your game is off.

Sorry for the hereditary depression, ADHD, anxiety, and mild psychosis, although, I must say, you’re handling it pretty well. I wonder if this makes me a page poet. Probably shouldn’t talk myself up like that. You struck out this once, kid, don’t be so grim. You’re so fucking hard on yourself.

You’re so dang hard on yourself. Damn, reel it to feel it, Dad. Ok, son, are you alright? No, that’s still too aggressive. He’s as sensitive as I was. Am. Son, I love you. That’s not what a teen wants to hear from his dad after striking out, on his way back to the dugout. Maybe I should just look at him discreetly. Erase all traces of decision from my face. Look like I’ve done this before, me. Yeah, I got this, for like 10 seconds I think I got this. That’s all I need, then I can keep thinking. It’s so odd having no choice in this.

Son, you didn’t even look this way. Was it too soon for you? Could you not stay in your place, just like your old man? Did you need guidance before you decided to get excited like your old man? Did you see your old man’s fright and his face carrying freight every night? Did you see your sisters and brothers and instead went to go be with them? Did you abandon your mother and I on purpose?

When we buried you my heart went idle. This shit isn’t funny no more. I mean I can’t even tell where the lines get crossed anymore and your sister is actually here fam we just waiting on you. I should really filter my lingo for these gringos that run the show, they don’t know the way this pain explains it know. It’s not plural, not this grammar.

Dude, nice catch. 3rd out and you get to hit. If you miss, dog, you still the shit but you say it. [insert son’s “You ain’t shit.”] That’s my boy. Now unlearn it. That’s toxic. That’s what it tastes smells looks feels sounds like. Know it and know it good because I need you to know the difference when I whip your ass from a non-toxic place. There’s a difference between discipline and stunting growth.

Strike two. Why couldn’t you have been born instead of making your mother and I bury you in the park? What you do affects people, son? At least that’s what I told the version of you that...I can’t share this here... you might not have even been a boy. You could have been Blythe all along, but this is fair thinking. I can’t share the form that I buried you in, how your feet lined up with home. How you choked up on the bat and swung for something greater than yourself: and connected.

Read the subtitle.