I want to tell you I love you. So I say it,
and you hardly look up from playing
with your trucks. My words are hardly heard,
you are so busy. Then soon enough you ask to nurse
on the couch, you request, and we curl up together.
You teach me that actions do speak louder than words.
I want to tell you that you’re safe. That you’ll always
have a warm spot in my arms, next to my heart.
When you’re afraid, you can come here —
I will protect you if you need, I will stay
where you need me. When you’re in my arms,
you teach me about the depths of mutual trust.
I want to tell you that I hear you.
The version of morse code eye-blinks
you sign while nursing to mean “I love you”
doesn’t go unseen. You teach me why
it’s important to be here for you.
I want to tell you that you are so special,
that your company is invaluable.
I want to tell you all these things. And I do,
though you knew it all along, I hope so far back
as the womb and birth and the words that followed
embraces and moments with you. And of course
the sharing, the studying, the knowing of each other
as closer than allies; this gift, this connected
blessing, a bond made tangible through breastfeeding.
You see, it is not so separate from us,
it is part of us just like love.
I want to tell you, most of all,
that breastfeeding is love.
And I love you.