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.










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