Once when I was eight, my finger twirling a red pigtail, I choked
on a Lifesaver hard candy. You gave me a sticky grape popsicle
to soothe my irritated throat, presented as awkward as I,
then only your niece, had been handed off from my true deadbeat

father. I was a one-eyed teddy bear alone on Christmas, unwanted
and unkempt, teeth in metal hedgerows of braces, ratty red pigtails
flying out like my bicycle streamers. No, you were not my father, 
but instead of cursing when I choked, smelling of weed and beer, 

you gave me a popsicle, and I began to call you Dad. You smiled
when I tried to make dinner at age twelve, oven-roasted chicken
blackened, mashed potatoes the consistency of rubber cement.
You weren?t commissioner then. Then, the city and the Batman

didn?t lock up your time, grappling with crazed super-villains
no jail could ever hold long enough. They couldn?t hold you??
I saw to that, joining the Dark Knight in his graveyard shift
to break you from the bars of a false departmental cover-up. He

disapproved. I found it exhilarating. With the battles came injuries
you couldn?t mend, and the Batman became a second surrogate,
bandaging my scraped limbs. I cited rough gym practices, wore
long sleeves to cover my bruises. So many times, I lied to you,

hiding the danger I faced every night. Dad, if you could only feel
Gotham?s night air streaming across your limbs as you plunge
down a ten-story drop before your zip line snaps taut, or the sole
of your boot slamming into the stomach of a night prowler...

The nurse tells me they put socks on my feet, after surgery.
I couldn?t tell you, Dad, if they were cotton, wool, or even
synthetic. The sheets, against my arms??those are a blend.
It wasn?t a boot that that psychotic bastard lodged in my stomach.

I should be out on the rooftops, searching for you with him??
the Bat??brushing aside Robin?s sarcasm with a dramatic roll
of my eyes while flying past gargoyles. You never knew, Dad, 
but I hung up my cape and cowl. I did it, thinking I?d be safe.

Though silent, I sense his approach, more shadow than man
in the window of the sanitized-white room. ?You?re wasting
your time,? I say. No tears form behind my glasses. ?If you want
to help, find my father and bring him to his daughter, the cripple.?

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