✒(You Can) Do No Wrong

A poem for my daughter

When my daughter was born my life changed forever. I told her this information recently.

I was lying next to her for five minutes before bedtime to help banish the worries of the day and I told her “when you were born my life changed forever,” and she said: “how?” and I said “before you were born I was just some guy; after you were born, I became your dad. That is the most special thing in the world,” and she cupped one hand over her fist and said “open the top,” and I did, and she said “put your finger in,” and I poked my finger into the space within her fist, and she said “take your finger out,” and I did, and she said “close the top,” and I did, and in a voice like a little mouse, she said “THANK YOU FOR CLEANING MY TOILET.”

Then she laughed.

Then we did that a few more times. Then she got thoughtful and said “You were just some guy? Did you live by yourself?” and I said, “No. I lived with your mom, I just meant I wasn’t as happy and my life wasn’t as meaningful.” She thought about this for a long time.

Then she held out her fist and said, “Open the top…”

This reminded me of a poem I wrote for her some years ago. It was prompted by a question a student asked, when, newly born and fresh out of the womb, my daughter could do, to me, no wrong whatsoever. I told the student as much and they said, “Well that’s not true,” and I said, “Yeah-huh!” and they said, “Nah,” and I said, “Yes! Yes it is!” and triumphant and full on their cleverness, they said, “what if she was a teenager and called you and said ‘dad, I did a terrible thing. He’s dead dad,’ what would you say then?”

I considered this for a long time.

Then I put out my fist and said “open the top.”

Kidding.

I shrugged and mumbled, “Guess we need to hide a body.”¹

I wrote the poem shortly after.

In retrospect, I don’t think I would hide the body. Maybe it’s because I’m tired. Maybe it’s because I think some time with the consequences of one’s own actions is therapeutic and I’d be robbing my daughter of an invaluable experience. Maybe it’s because I want to be a good example to her of how we treat our fellow human beings. Maybe it’s because I would want to see how it played out. Maybe it’s because I’d be afraid she’d kill again and that would make things worse for her.

… But whatever the reason, I can say with relative certainty it would have absolutely nothing to do with the deceased, or being ‘fair,’ or having ‘empathy’ or whatever. The evil and good of it would not play into the equation one bit. They would matter about as much as whether the deceased liked salami sandwiches.

My decision would be made with my daughter in the nexus. For better or worse.

(You Can) Do No Wrong

If I were a hobbit, 
and you the one ring, 
I’d carry you strapped on my side
by Sting. 

You’d be a thing of burning heat, 
of anvil weight, 
like an oak beam trapped inside a pebble. 

But I’d carry you 
as far from Mount Doom as my little legs could peddle, 
my sword, and my bread, and my little dark pebble. 

If you were the seed of all Darkness, 
Voldemort pinned inside a Horcrux, 
the snake-faced brood-boy himself: 

I’d cry. 

But after a stiff drink, 
or plenty of breathing exercises, 
or both,
I’d wipe my tears, roll my sleeves, 
mumble, 

“Let’s go kill us 
a boy who lived.” 

And we would.

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Thank you for reading! 

As always, if you liked what you read and it made you feel a bit less bleak about this whole "living inside a simulated universe produced by Lays Potato Chips to gauge the effects of marketing pushes on potato chip sales" thing, then please spread the word. I'm growing my subscriber base and recommendations from you lot are one of the best ways I can do that. 

If you have a dad, or know a dad, or know someone who has a dad, feel free to send it right along and spread the dad vibes.  

Much love! 

1. Ivy, if it is the future and you are a teenager and you are reading this, please do not commit the irrevocable act of murder on the assurance that your haggard, arthritic, bag of a father will help heft and chuck the slab of human meat.