I knew that you were coming
before you arrived, so proud
in my naivete for guessing what the swollen
belly and showers of baby clothes portended:
a small, scrunched baby boy
tinged with blue, packaged in plastic.
A source of grief for the adults,
both quiet and outspoken, for no reason I could unravel
over confusing talk of chromosomes
and chance and expectations.

You seemed to be a rubik's cube,
neatly wrapped in primary-coloured promises
but underneath where squares should be placed precisely
white by white by white
bordered by orange
and red, edges and vertices
clearly defined, someone had crept in
twisting the layers,
mingling the mix with green and blue.

You are a mosaic puzzle too complex
for even the seven to solve
and there is no sheet of stickers
I can use to restore order.

There is beauty in the shuffling: in wide brown eyes
and goofy smile, in slurring speech and firm embrace
and more that I discover fresh each day.
I do not let my thoughts stray to twenty-one:
unlucky for some.