i don’t know the official name of the procedure.
i don’t know where to stand while dad changes behind a curtain.
i don’t know what the rolling-bed is actually called,
or why he looks so suddenly small sitting there,
an optical illusion. i don't know what time it is
or how long anything takes. i don't know if i'm allowed
to have my phone or if i can rest my bag on the floor.
disinfectant smells like the opposite of spring, funny and far off.
when the doctor refers to the surgery as “elective”
i don't know why it makes me flinch,
as though the desire to walk is frivolous, self-indulgent.
i don't know where they put his bag of clothes.
i don’t know when they will come back to take his glasses.
i don't know how to look at his hand
waiting gently on white cotton.