I know your beauty spots. One and two. 

I know where the toothpaste on your hair hasn’t washed off yet. 

I know your little fears, from the hair dryer, to Papa’s booming voice and my scared one. 

I know that wobbly walk of yours. 

I heard you crying in a room of 100 people and I knew, “That is my little boy.” 

I know each and every crevice. 

Every fleck of paint that defines you. 

Every cornered angle and ever softened cloud upon your body. 

I know the nuances that become you. 

For I have formed you. 

The bones that are still soft, like a firming clay. 

The mind, that isn’t yet wired, for it is programming itself as we speak. 

Every crevice of you. 

Be our surnames apart. 

Be our gender on opposite sides, I know you. 

Be you into cars and I into art. 

I know what you want when you say “pip pip”. 

Words no one can decipher. 

Upon a curling tongue which doesn’t know itself. 

I know you. 

My darling little boy, I know you. 
There will come a day, when you tell me tales. When you turn away from my warmth. When you slam door upon door and ignore call upon call. 

It will be okay my sweet. 

Because your mumma knows you. 

Every crevice.