It keeps me up at night
when I think of how my dad
never got to meet you,
how he would have hugged you
with strong and open arms,
happily awaited the day
he could call you son.
You would have listened to Coltrane together,
or Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 3.
All the things my dad loved the most,
so did you.

Including me.

I’m sorry,
I meant,
“How’ve you been lately?”