(for Henry)

What set of miracles had to occur
to set you in a backpack on your
the back of your grandma, who is
my sister, we two who came through
your great-grandma—our mama who
sheltered us womb mates?

And then your grandma made your
mama, who made you, and now a
small cross section of our family unit
comes together to shop at IKEA
with our second cousin Robyn
and her daughter Charlotte—all this
shared DNA bouncing between us.

And, following the prescribed path
through the great store, how perfect
is it that at just the right moment
we find ourselves smack dab in
the cafeteria with their famous
Swedish meatballs, so prominent
in our family food tree?

Your grandma’s grandma’s mama
came from Sweden and passed
her recipe onto the grandma
three of us knew—her crocheting/
quilting/brownie-baking hands
rolling meatball after tiny meatball,
counting every one that she first
browned in a skillet, then baked
in the oven and set before family
who gobbled them like bon-bons.

None of us in the succeeding
generations has been able to
accurately reproduce Grandma’s
Swedish meatballs, though culinary
queen Robyn has come close.

And you, little fella—riding high,
nodding off, waking for a bottle,
rolling along in the stroller—
you know none of this. But oh,
what you carry inside you—
mystery and history and genetic
code from other familial strands
tucked deep in your cells.

You can’t see it, though we can—
in your merry eyes when you laugh,
in your gummy grin, in your drool—
the molecules of your ancestors
who got you here, who got us here,

some of us craving meatballs,
as we imagine that you,
once you have teeth,
may someday
love, too.