The Line Between Dogs and Elephants

Today, you handed me a masterpiece,  

your fingers sticky with crayon courage,  

and a sunbeam stitching your hair.  

“Look, Daddy!” you said, tooth-gap wide,  

a parade of joy marching across the room.  

I held the paper like a fragile bird,  

its blue stick feet stumbling across the white.  

"A dog," I said, because I thought  

the floppy ears deserved the word.  

Your smile collapsed into rainclouds,  

tears carving rivers down your round cheeks.  

"No, Daddy, it's an elephant! An elephant!"  

your small fists punched the injustice in the air.  

And I stared, suddenly unsure of shapes,  

of what lines meant, who decides what is.  

I knelt, my voice a low apology,  

soft as smoke curling in winter light.  

“If you see an elephant, it’s there,”  

I whispered, handing back the paper;  

your storm calmed into puddles  

as you pointed to its invisible trunk.  

“See?” you said, beaming with certainty—  

and I did, finally, see it too.