Is my dad’s hand my dad’s hand?
Does he know it is his hand?
When I bring him a coffee
and he picks it up with his hand
does he know it is his coffee
when it is in his mouth?
Are the family photos of his family?
When he wakes up wandering the halls
asking where the bathroom is
and he is brought back to his room
and ushered into the bathroom,
is it his bathroom? When I reach
for my father’s hand, it is not to hold it.
I tell him to Squeeze and he squeezes.
When I feel how much looser his grip
has got, I ask if he has been eating.
The plate in front of him, is it his food?
When I remind him of his life story,
is it his life? When I sit next to him
on his twin bed showing him photos
of his children, they must be his children.
When I tell him I am his child, he nods
and says That’s nice. I’m glad you came.
When he asks my name, I give him my name.
It becomes his name. He rolls it around
in his mouth. W-h-e-e-l-e-r he breathes.
It is a good name, his name.
I hold his hand while he says my name.
His hand could be called withered
while I hold it. Holding his hand
has nothing to do with his hand.
Holding my father’s hand is largely
an understanding of my name.
Wheeler Light received his MFA in writing poetry from University of Virginia and lives in Denver, CO. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in New England Review, Western Humanities Review, Inscape, and Rattle, among other publications. You can find his work at www.wheelerlight.net.