Hayes Davis
Letter to Myself as a New Father
January 6, 2009
I know this finds you flushed with new, marveling
at her swaddled heft, tiny mouth suckling your finger.
You’re picturing the sky butterscotch and currant,
the magic hour gilding her tiny legs, her little hand in yours
along Sligo Creek’s emerald spring evening, baby ducks
lined behind mama, tree frogs tuning up. You can’t wait
to hurtle February’s enameled sledding hills, ride July’s
swollen surf. All that will happen, but in a few days she’ll
pee on you—they all do—and soon four hours of sleep
will feel like water to parched wanderer, your patience worn
to jagged nub. But when she digs her 13-month-old hands
into a plant, doesn’t hear you say stop, or does and digs more,
I need you to know a quiet nurturing, the gentle redirect
of dulcet tones and probing questions. When her small digits
fumble with car-seat straps and push yours away, “I do it!”
wait. When your busy inertia moves you to pick her up,
hold her hand instead and slow your stride. If not, you’ll hear
your bite in tones she uses to scold her younger brother,
see yourself in her furrowed four-year old brow. Her temper
will flare at school, your phone will interrupt a meeting,
and you’ll know your parents’ red-faced walk to the principal’s office,
the silent late-morning ride home. Keep your dad’s weekend
Valley Green walks alive as you cradle the perfect skipping rock,
slow-motion your wrist for her learning eyes, but let her choose
the path back to the car, the soundtrack for the ride home—
let her know the ambrosia of your confidence and trust.
Hayes Davis is the author of Let Our Eyes Linger (Poetry Mutual Press, 2016), and won a 2022 Maryland State Arts Council Independent Artists Award. His work has appeared in New England Review, Mom Egg Review, Poet Lore, and several anthologies. He was a member of Cave Canem’s first cohort of fellows. An education administrator and high-school English teacher, he lives in Silver Spring with his wife, poet Teri Ellen Cross Davis.