Occupied with myself, I ignored the mother
concealed in the shadows, always in the back.
She went by unnoticed, but all the tears uncover
buried secrets of betrayal and a deep seated crack.
An unwavering resolve to foster,
and not once did she slack.
Raised a daughter,
but couldn’t gather
the strength to speak
against the flak she received
for the lack of her uterus’ cooperation,
in all the procreation.
Who took the credit in the end?
The father that seemingly would mend
the split seams of a relation
that came undone.
But did he ever lend a helping hand to the one
who selflessly would bend for the child’s tantrum?
All the complaints in unison,
and still the child never heard the universal question.
She is not yours, why raise her like a son?
(Ignoring the grotesque nature of the conundrum)
The ears were covered by the lovelorn mother who would run
to the rescue of an unruly child who was shunned,
with blows that rained for not being his creation.
I pledge allegiance to my dad, she croons.
No, Lana. They are all fools.
In love with their own aristocracy.
Whilst the labour of a mother is ignored as secondary.
All the social commentary.
On my temperament which is ascribed,
not to my mother, but to a father no longer alive.