I’ll write you a list

of all the things she can’t do.

Bullet point her life.

Highlight her inadequacies.
She can’t roll with ease.

Run.

Jump.

Climb.
Delayed gross motor skills.

Delayed fine motor skills.

High choking risk.

Requires constant supervision.
Not enough?
She can’t say her name.

My name.

I love you.

I need.
Limited expressive language.

Limited receptive language.

Does not meet developmental milestones.
More details required?
I’ll list every time we panic.

Every breath we hold.

The ordinary rituals of survival:
Encourage chewing.

Sweep her mouth.

Check her airway before sleep.

Listen for silence.

Pray for noise.
Keep going? As much as I can?

She gestures wildly,

desperately trying to say

anything.

She signs

I love you.

Dance.

Music.

Help.

Again.
And it falls on deaf ears,

“What does she mean?”
She laughs before the punchline.

She leans her head against my chest

when the world is too loud.
But that doesn’t fit your boxes.
So, I will reduce her

to dot points

and diagnostic language

and quantified delay

to make her worthy

of your assistance.
I will translate her courage

into deficits.

I will turn her perseverance

into paperwork.

I will not celebrate

her achievements in front of you.
You close the file.

You send the email.
You leave me with tape and glue

to piece her,

and us,

back together – 
                        Because what parent

                        learns to catalogue

                        their child’s flaws

                        and call it love?