would get the years with their daughter
that his illness stole from ours.
And he gave our daughter his heartbeat,
recorded on a good afternoon,
sealed inside a teddy bear,
so the little girl he’d never hold
could press a paw and hear her father’s heart
every night of her life.
He couldn’t stay to watch her grow.
So he made sure his heart stayed anyway—
beating in Lily’s chest,
and echoing in Hope’s bear—
two little girls,
one heart,
one man who loved them both
more than he feared his own ending.
Press the paw, ali my daughter says,
and there he is.
Steady.
Strong.
Beating for her still,
exactly as he promised on a porch
before either of them
May you like
was even born.
THE END
