with a single syllable

from the day I was born

he became my son

মা he said

ignoring the close-lipped ambiguity

of the first sound

holding the inevitability of the last

he read to me from his Dictionary of Medicine

the blue cover torn

the black peeking through from underneath

you can be anything you want to be here

a mantra he always spoke

I half listened

examining instead

the brown of our ex-council house carpet

glitter caught from the week before and I thought

if I lie still on the floor

I could be invisible

As I grew older

I’d borrow his jackets to go out in

large enough to hide inside

his scent of Old Spice lingering

I’d make him lunch of runny eggs and toast

eat with him on the second-hand table that folded out

tracing scratches on the orange weathered top

in the dining room

I, the reason for his too cold winters and

tepid summers

his absent parents and lost sisters

trampled upon

by people who said he didn’t belong

I understood.

So, in the end when he told me he couldn’t - anymore

doubling all endearment with গো

in the dry rounding of his mouth

I was stuck

damp, moth-like,

to the smooth surface of

his tray

having to force myself large

like a mother

I made him sip water from his paper cup

and told him what he’d always told me

you’ll be fine

try harder

you disappoint me…