I locked my classroom this afternoon and headed home. It's summer. That means many things, but the first thing it means is my daughter's birthday, in a couple of days. I wrote this poem for her.
She was born during Finals Week
And as I labored, her dad typed an exam.
The students later said it was the easiest he'd ever given.
This year Finals Week ended just before her birthday
And she checks her grades obsessively online,
Dissatisfied by all the numbers she discovers.
Only a hundred is good enough for her.
There's a photo of her in her dad's arms in the hospital
Hours after she was born.
Next to him a pile of papers sits ready to be graded,
But his focus is on her
And he judges her to be perfect.
Listen to me, daughter,
Intense and fragile since the moment I first held you,
No letter or number will ever sum up your worth.
Ruth, from thereisnosuchthingasagodforsakentown.blogspot.com
Today's Poetry Friday roundup is here.
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