My mother texts me

Hijo,
eres buen papa.

I had just sent her a picture of her grandson
standing under a storefront sign for popcorn,

arms raised in triumph,
one leg lifted and curled
into the other,

a hungry
happy little tree.

I texted her back, in Spanish,
But I’ve done nothing.

-
Growing up,
my father never did anything
horrible to me.

And though I would readily describe him
as being horrible with my mom, I refrain.
She would disagree with me.

It is as if his being horrible says
something horrible about her.

-

The last time we spoke face to face:

These are the only two things
I have left to say
to your mother and you.

He was holding up both fists. And I
walked away.

-

Years later, I would run into him at the post office,
the drugstore, at a small sidewalk café
where he sat reading the paper.

Sometimes he would look over and say
nothing.

-

The boy—then a baby—
was with me at the post office,
the drugstore, the
small sidewalk café.

Holding on to him, I would look over
to this man and wait for him
to say

Hijo,