Blanket
Once, twice, three times a night
I go by your room to see if you’re okay.
Not too warm or too cold? Got your blanket on you?
Ninety nine out of a hundred times
you may stir, but won’t wake
as I pull the cover over you.
And the one time you do wake up?
You won’t remember those instances
later, when you’re all grown up.
Hell. it’ll be a small miracle
if even I remember by then.
But even though those many times
when I slipped into your room
and gently pulled your cover back on top of you
will, in all likelihood, become lost,
forgotten to the dry pages of history,
I will keep doing it
until you get old enough
to get your own blanket…
and maybe every now and then
even thereafter, with your permission,
just because you’ll always be my son.