In my time, my childbearing days, there were no apps,
so your father was never a blueberry to me.
But you, my granddaughter in the womb,
you are a fruit, delicious, desired,
a different one each week. Your parents show me
your size on their pregnancy app.
We follow your growth in fruit/seed terms.
First you're as tiny as a vanilla bean seed.
You grow into a poppy seed, an orange seed, a sweet pea.
In week seven, you're a blueberry. I add blueberries
to my oatmeal, thinking of you, little one.
Bigger and bigger. A raspberry. An olive. A prune
in week ten. And then a strawberry—a large one,
says the app. In week twelve, your mother sees you
on the ultrasound: your little hands and feet, body, face.
I ask about fruit. She tells me you are now a lime.
A lovely lime, dear granddaughter! A taste of sour
to prepare you for life, which, you may discover one day,
is a feast of sweet and sour moments.

There is no grape on the app, but I think of you as my grape,
my wine—the wine I want to take on a picnic one day
with a basket of bread and cheese and fruit.
We will celebrate the grass, the trees, the flowers. You.

In the meantime, we wait for the largest fruit:
you will be a watermelon, full and ripe,
ready, finally, to join your parents on their journey.
Ready to join us—your family in America, Japan,
Panama, Israel—at this table we have set,
this picnic we call life.


© by Lori Levy.
Used with the author’s permission.