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.
Hearts, like doors, will ope with easeTo very, very little keys,And don’t forget that two of theseAre “I thank you” and “If you please.” Come when you’re called,Do what you’re bid,Close the door after you,Never be chid. Seldom “can’t,”Seldom “don’t;”Never “shan’t,”Never “won’t.” © Anonymous | Spilledwords | 2021
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