Danielle Zaccagnino
My Baby Fights Sleep The Way My Father Fights Death
He thrashes wildly against the mattress. He screams.
He has two tattoos of the New York Yankees’ logos and one of Jesus Christ. He is brand new to the world. Empathy has yet to find him. He wants his formula and a pacifier.
He needs Medicaid to approve his application. He gets baby Tylenol in a syringe. He is sick, and it’s killing us all. He cuts off my sister and blocks my mother’s number. He beats on my mother’s shoulder and puts my sister’s sleeve in his mouth.
He yells at the nurses, “You woke The Scumbag up now,” some never-before-mentioned alter-ego who lay dormant inside him, apparently activated and ready to enact his revenge on the incompetent world. He shouts “gah!”
This was the loneliest Thanksgiving of his life. He tried pumpkin purée for the first time. He lay on the floor for hours, calling for help. He took backwards steps in his walker.
He’s up in the middle of the night, and so am I. He is greedy with love. He has never known me. His gums are swollen.
Danielle Zaccagnino is a teacher, writer, and new mother. Her first book, Suppose Muscle, Suppose Night, Suppose This In August, is available from Mason Jar Press. Her writing appears in Diagram, Waxwing, and Puerto del Sol. She is the EIC of Fast Flesh Literary Journal (www.fastflesh.net).