a christmas present
I could write a hallmark card but you’d hate that
about how strong you’ve made me feel
or how I, everyday, love you clearly
which is true but trite and not appropriate for what is really here
‘
because, mummy, we both know that what is real is what is complicated
and humorous and angry and a melancholy bliss
‘
for what is here is standing for two hours while your plane lands in the snow
and guessing Russians from the Brits from les beaux francaises
and hoping every tired silloutte was you
while waiting for that moment which
(I really did)
I waited for for months
to see your beam across the faceless travelers
which says everything and all happiness
like it always does
‘
and though I try, valiantly (I think)
to be the kind of woman
that you and I want me to be
I base my success and failure on you
modeled like my very smile
which I can never take real credit for
it is yours
you taught me how, after all
‘
for what is here is this:
I want to be me like I want to be you
and as torn between the two as I sometimes become
I know somewhere there’s not much difference anyway
and somewhere real, that makes me glad
‘
I feel like I live – wholeheartedly
‘
that’s you sometimes
and me too
sometimes
‘
but here always
a truth:
I am
your daughter
and I am so very
very grateful
