He was a drunk,
and he left you
before you were grown
When we heard your name
we laughed;
we tried to figure it out,
this five letter puzzle
for the woman told us to call you Katie
spelled
K-E-I-R-I
Alone I,
knowing a touch of Spanish
spelled it out,
sounding out the letters
in a foreign tongue,
spitting round pebbles
When I asked you
you smiled,
lifting,
relived
Your father was confused
that night you were born,
in the loud hospital
immaculately clean
and white
Your nurse's name was Katie
and your father did not know
so he did the best he could
and wrote
in his large brown hand,
Keiri
You have his picture in a locket
and you look away as you tell me,
hiding that betraying blue
I know that feeling,
a stiffened back,
burning;
the hatred of the runaway man,
the traitor
And that other thing,
obstinate,
the rock in your throat;
the love of a father
who gave you
your name.