The next day you are sitting up,
flirting with the nurses,

telling them you want to put a white bulb
in the sea-fogged lighthouse print

at the foot of your bed in case
you need a light nearby to go into—

and that is when I know you are okay,
because you cannot joke when you are

still deeply afraid, but even so
it’s days before I see the scar,

the long, thin zipper line
from sternal notch to belly, and the muscles

in my face tighten on their own,
my eyes not closing even though

it’s further proof that you are
healing, even though it’s all gone well—

a few steps, a hallway, a staircase, and then
you are my father again,

breastbone slowly knitting you whole,
a thousand years of breathing and beating

ahead of you again, like I am a child
who has never known death, but

my chest won’t close as easily,
and my breath comes faster now.