Abecedarian on the Good Father

Keith Leonard

As he holds his wife’s hand, the nurse tells him to breathe. He will be a good father. He  could be. His wife tows a boat on land with her teeth.  Don’t worry. Good father. Breathe. Later, everyone smiles when he jogs with the stroller. He  feigns interest in ponies. He pushes a swing and his daughter giggles. He applies sunblock, and  helps warm the bottle, and he is inducted into the fatherly hall of fame. He  jumps on the trampoline, and the chorus sings Good Father. He wipes ketchup off her cheek at the zoo, and the old women  laud. He is told he is a new breed of man. Evolved. His knuckles just barely or never scraping the ground. He hugs often enough, packs her lunch, and the crowd  pours on the applause. He lays her down for  quiet time. It goes somewhat well.  Rejoice, the people shout, for here is a saint, as he lifts diapers to the conveyor belt. Truthfully, he feels slightly unwell. A bowl of plastic fruit is pretty, but  vaguely toxic. He sleeps fine without a mouth affixed to his chest. His bottle of Xanax is half full. The nurse says, You will be a good father. He jogs with the stroller. He reaches the zenith of a very small hill.