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.