When my confounded science experiment of a daughter
finally does what I’ve told her to do,
I hope she’ll understand
why I’m not around to see it.
When she achieves what I know she’s capable of,
and not one bit less,
(and stays hydrated and keeps off the roof)
I hope she’ll know I’m proud.
When that flower girl reaches the sky,
puzzled that I don’t come too,
I hope she won’t think poorly of me
because I can’t.
When she says to me,
“You’re not my father, I just need you to stay,”
she’s only halfway right:
I’m not her father
but she doesn’t need me.
And when she’s gone, and I’m gone,
I hope she knows that I love her,
like my father loved me,
the only way I know how.