What's a Man to Do?

If I was your mother,

I could have felt the changes

from the moment you came into being.

Anyone could see the strands of hair on my head,

glowing with the fact of you,

but only I could feel the strands of DNA;

the seeds that sprouted into me,

forever blossomed into a brand new soul.

But I am your father,

and I never knew you.

A new soul flared into existence,

but the light never reached my eyes,

and I was none the wiser.

What's a man to do?

If I was your mother,

I could have seen the way

my entire existence formed itself around you.

I could lay my head on a pillow,

knowing that same soft comfort and rest

was what you felt as you lay inside me,

all snuggled up,

warm and safe,

just the same as me.

But I am your father,

and you were only ever outside of me,

apart from me.

I could never reach you on the other side of all the walls:

past the bricks,

the wood,

the plaster.

The skin.

What's a man to do?

If I was your mother,

I could have held you

as your face met the air for the first time.

I could bring you close and soothe you,

every touch, taste, and smell

the very definition of home for you.

But I am your father,

and I could only ever love you from afar.

I must always maintain the proper distance,

in arm's lengths, six-feets, or yards.

What's a man to do?

If I was your mother...

I could have saved you.

They could call me anything they want,

tell me every horror story in the book,

and I could still refuse

to have you

torn apart

alive.

But I am your father.

There was nothing I could do.

No argument, no fight, no begging, pleading, or crying

got me even one inch

closer to stopping

what she planned

to do to you.

How can a father survive what you didn't?

What's a man to do?