He insists I have his smile.
I practice it in mirrors,
waiting for recognition to arrive
late, like him
Relatives say I’m lucky
genes travel mysteriously,
like secrets that prefer company
At reunions, we line up
for photographs,
a family tree trimmed neatly to hide the grafts.
He teaches me how to sign my name,
as if handwriting
could make blood behave.
I nod, obedient,
carrying forward what I’m given…
his surname,
his pauses,
his talent
for not asking the obvious questions.
Irony is hereditary, after all.