Ed Ismail
Your child is funny
How cute it is when it says words
Like an adult, it inserts the things
It needs to say
So that we may
Understand and never stray
So that it’s impossible to not betray
How someone so young has the ability to display
It’s feelings and requests
As you the parent, the teacher and adult
Digests and protects
All the information you collect
In order to connect
Overprotect
And never suspect anything of ill will
What a thrill you must get to have planted seeds
That feeds
And succeeds in the need to inform you of what is necessary
As if you notate the dictation
Like an obedient secretary
How you act on this commentary is so regularly, delicately and indefinitely
Inevitably pleasing to that of the speaker
In an appeal to not appear weaker
You, the speaker, the parent, the teacher
The backside cleaner
The responsibility of the world’s future
The burden carried
Pushing one out as soon as you’re married
But me, no!
There’s no wisdom for me to pass on
Not a choice, not a chance to influence
No chance to make a difference
But that’s okay
I can weigh my responsibilities relinquished in kilos
No chance of flooding your time-line with photos
I get no 24 weeks
No embryos
And what would I teach if I could?
How would I make my offspring be understood?
Do my best to make them good
Set them off on the right foot
Well
I’d insure they were secure in being themselves
Instil the fact that we aren’t born racist,
sexist, fascist nor do we store negative thoughts for those we simply don’t understand
There’s no discrimination due to their tastes, beliefs or DNA strands
We should look at what people hold in their hearts
And not what they hold in their hands
And then I look at my hands
Just filled with air
There's nothing there for me to cradle
There's nothing for me to care
I don't get to rock baby to sleep
I don't get to encourage a toddler to imagine counting sheep
Instead in my hands is my heart
Barely beating, broken leaving me to weep
But that's okay right?
Some things just aren't meant to be
Doesn't make you feel better though does it?
I never thought it possible to grieve for a life that was never here
To grieve for choices I'll never have
What do I do with the feelings
Of always wanting to be a Dad?
Don't tell me to adopt or that I have an angel in heaven
Don't complain to me about your kids in your ear hole 24/7
Don't tell me to make lemonade out of life's harshest lemon
These feelings I have
All bitter and twisted
What pill can I take for all these things listed?
Until one day, hope on a bus was gifted
I wasn't aware how far I had drifted
A little girl I saw
For a moment I thought her mine
Then I noticed her mother
Not giving her time
No attention or responses
As she called out to “Mummy”
Instead all this girl saw was the back of a phone
And manicured nails
Watching fingers move up and down
No time for stories
No time for tales
Just an accessory for your life so privileged
She’s calling to you
Can you not give her a smile
Can you not try to connect
You’ll be on this bus for a while
The sounds must be upsetting
The movement might be rough
Can’t you show your daughter some love?
Rather than displaying you don’t care enough
She calls out again
She’s shushed as the phone chimes
“Mummy” answers a call
As baby girl whines
This makes me so mad
It’s a cruel and unfair world
I look at the little girl’s curls
I imagine them around my fingers twirled
I imagine her laughing as I make silly faces
I imagine her smiling as I shower her with love
And then I find myself standing
Then going to pick her up
She holds out her hands
Desperation in her eyes
She looks like she’s been crying
Then I realise
The tears I see
Are mine
I know not what I’m doing
So I sit straight back down
“Mummy’s” completely oblivious
I could cry ‘til I drown
I hate having these feelings
I wish they weren’t mine
I wish I didn’t have to lie
Tell everyone I’m fine
I wish I didn’t see reminders
Every day of my life
That I’ll never be a Father
That I can’t heal my wife
Family and friends
They just don’t get it
The know what they have to lose is so precious
So they don’t want to see it
But it feels so unjust
That I have be it
The minority
The one with quietest voice
Well this is what it’s like
Being Childless, Without Choice
