Ultrasound

My daughter returns home,  
bringing black and white pictures  
of the new life growing inside her.
 
You are waiting to emerge
from her womb; it is only weeks now  
before your birth. In the pictures,  
 
I can see clearly the liquid outline  
of your beautiful face
–you, strange little alien from
 
a place I've never known,
some faraway planet
of purity and perfection.
 
I can almost trace  
with my unworthy finger
the soft, angry flare of your nostrils,  
 
your tiny fist curled  
and waiting for release  
from swathes of comforting darkness
 
into light,
into new answers  
to old questions.
 
And I want with everything  
in my being to simply be enough  
for you. To not fail you like I feel  
 
I failed your mother. I'm terrified  
you might grow to hate me someday  
as much as I hate myself.
 
Until then I only hope  
you can hear my voice  
from where you are.