Baby Cancer W/Corrections

Clay Whiteheart
Baby Cancer

Why did God make cancer?
Of all the creation; was he so wounded?
As to want to give this life, take this life, from a baby
He wont live six weeks they said.
I thought about the things he'd miss: football
bubble gum, lightning bugs, a class project.

The things I'd miss: showing him how to catch, helping with that project.
Of all the good things the lord could bestow, cancer?
His first day was my best day, held him like a little football
Who knew a child this beautiful could be wounded
It was terminal they said.
But my god he was just a baby.

My child, my boy, my baby.
Her mother reasoned 'Better off he not live in a project'
Better off he doesn't suffer she said.
Who knows how he suffered, what it did to him, that cancer.
I always wanted a boy, who knew when it happened I'd be so wounded
I thought back to football.

It was the reason I'd had to quit; football
I mean. Forget about the baby.
I was broken out for the season, wounded
The surgeons didn't want me, thought I was a project
After a big hit I took, the doc said I had cancer
It's hereditary, they said.

You gave the sickness to your son, they said.
With your goddamn tackles and your goddamn football,
You gave your baby cancer
You gave cancer to your baby
Now you sit in your dirty grey project
Apartment, wondering how life got to be so wounded

Injured, broken kaputt, blasted, wounded.
His bone charts said he could have been a star, they said.
Pushing my boy to fame would have been my life's project
If he could have lived through the illness, he'd live for football.
After all, he was my baby
Took away my chance at redemption, that cancer.

Though he was wounded, I demanded he go pro, he play football.
But He's a baby, they said. Your baby.
He's a project, they said. He had cancer.