spilledwoords
– Spilling everyday experiences with words –
My Daughter
When all is said and done
this exhaustin’ drama to make
an adult out of an infant over.
This is what it comes to –
my daughter is not my daughter.
A most grateful child she is
seem not to have forgotten
her native tongue e’en under
the authority and oath of a ring
still, my daughter is not my daughter.
A minute she’s here,
in another seeks home;
yes, home to her real family
a mere visitor now to the house
of her birth and nurture.
Life’s un-simple logic I query; I envy,
no, I envy not his man
another’s heartthrob I’ve also stolen
to birth a daughter. Instinctively
my daughter is my daughter.
Copyright © 2018. Ugo Nkwoala. All rights reserved.
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