No. 1

I sat down gazing at my masterpiece- chunky tomatoes, onions mixed in grain
two visitors approached the steps where I crouched to eat out of sight
they were looking for directions to the ceremony, hosted by my Grandfather,
the Head of the Clan and I directed them from my perch not willing
to part from my meal prepared just right
‘Who’s child are you?’, inquired the old crony

She approached the stairs fuming, angry with nostrils flaring
tearing into my tender flesh at three, hurling abuse so caustic,
I might as well die now for the visitors approached her,
with insinuations of being unfit when they had met the Wildling
She stands with hand on heart, declarations made that
she has never laid a hand on her children since birth
Who’s child am I?

Having to bath me, feed me or having to wash my unruly hair or
having to care for me, was beyond her maternal capacity for
she was a high bred Lady, marrying well below her destiny
she loved Three with no impediment, even when wrong,
she loved and nurtured them as a daily regiment
as I watched from my perch and I had to admit, her propensity
to be No. 1 Mum was well within her stringent grasp
Who’s child am I?

I had sprained my arm, a beating I received,
followed by anger and hatred even if
it was one of her Three that had tripped me
My clothes were worn: tattered, torn and hand-me-downs
Don’t ever frown over this, she who never beats her children, will
Be still and hold your face down on your pillow
until you stop breathing or crying, whichever came first
Who’s child am I?

Her test scores and IQ is the highest we have seen in any child
‘She is mentally unstable’, she explains sweetly to the school
There is no funds to educate her further, for she is not right in the head
her diagnosis could hold true as the several times my head hit
the wall or cold stairs by their hands, could have yielded me dead
Who’s child am I?

‘I don’t want her in my house!’, she instructs
I had moved out due to an altercation:
he had terrorized my grandparents so I beat him
a knife he grabs from the kitchen, chasing after me,
only to be pierced by the scepter at the prayer place,
rendering him a coward and a cheat, never to meet again
Who’s child am I?

Emerging out of my desolation, a girl rising
I rose up, soaring higher than expected
a beautiful successful life was my creation
Surprising me, she sought favors, being all nice
the more I gave, the more she played on my kindness
giving nothing in return, was her vice
not a shred of affection did she show
knowing that was what I most yearned for

Who’s child am I?
Does it really matter now, based on what I have earned
By Raising Myself Up Right!

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the most tenuous relationship....Mothers & Daughters