But I am the kind of man who’s abandoned his father.
How easy, my tongue. Not me. Never. No. I tell myself
I am not the kind of man who’d abandon his child. I can’t
decide, should I love him or dump him—he won’t miss
what’s never loved him. What I know about fatherhood
is tidal, it comes and goes. What I know about fatherhood
does not yet ache. While we play peek-a-boo he gaggles.
I feed him milk from an unwashed bottle. Hmm. Because
he looks like me, I must look after him. So helpless, so young,
I convince myself; every baby needs a father. I swaddle
a baby who is my father. No. I carry my father like a baby.
Ángel García, the proud son of Mexican immigrants, is the author of Teeth Never Sleep (University of Arkansas Press), recipient of a CantoMundo Poetry Prize, an American Book Award, finalist for a PEN America Open Book Award, and finalist for a Kate Tufts Discovery Award. His work has been published in the American Poetry Review, McSweeney’s, Crab Orchard Review, RHINO, Connotation Press, Tinderbox, Huizache, Miramar, Waxwing, The Acentos Review, The Packinghouse Review, and The Good Men Project among others. He has received fellowships from CantoMundo, Community of Writers, Vermont Studio Center, and MacDowell. He currently teaches in the MFA Program at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign.