All Grown Up
I just wanted to say that I think I’m kind of sorry.
When you left
with your shiny briefcase and Monday reports
to catch that last flight to ten thousand miles away I was waiting for your phone calls
and your good-nights and tuck-ins
and your help with homework.
Instead I got ten days a year.
I stretched five inches
broke out a field of acne
rolled my ankle trying to walk in heels fell off the roof of the house
(don’t worry, it wasn’t serious)
and crashed Mum’s car.
Yesterday you brought me a doll
with pink lips tattooed into a parabola a lifetime-long dress suspended
over plastic skin
and two motionless feet
starched curls wrestled into pigtails.
I just wanted to say that it’s not your fault.
Barbie looks better under the tyres anyway.
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