His tiny, soft hands
Use my thighs as a lever
To get to my awaiting arms.
His grabby fingers wrap around mine
The pudgy arms have wrinkle nor scar
His face looks as if it had never borne a frown.
But his eyes betray his innocent looks
For the pain there is all too adult
The prison bars around his father hold tight
And the only thing my son will ever get is ink-stained letters.