I lift her shirt carefully in the same way I did the night before, exposing this roundness new to us both. Leaning close, I speak loud in a playful accent not quite my own into some invisible microphone.

“Hello baby, this is your father.”

She giggles and the bump stays calm.

“Dork,” she says.

Neither of us know much about you, this baby we have nicknamed Poppy, but people tell us you have ears now, so I talk. I talk about music and sing a song so out of tune that I resort to humming. I talk about who I am and hope unknowing ears pick it up. And while they do not understand, they hear these sounds and feel the connection growing between us. A connection I cannot see or show but can feel, as invisible as the microphone I hum into.

Later, when I have said everything, I wish you a good night and pull the shirt down over the bump like a curtain lowering over a stage. I place my lips against the shirt and kiss. Tomorrow I will tell you more, but even when I move away the connection is still there, always there.