By: Carl Papa Palmer
Removing the library card from my wallet,
an old photo, her first day of kindergarten,
comes to view through the plastic sleeve.
She woke me early that morning, wanted
to watch cartoons rather than go to school.
This picture Mom took, us cuddled under
covers eating dry cereal, hugging pillows
in television’s glow, her eyes on the screen,
my eyes closed, fingers combing her hair.
Brought from my reverie, a small child’s
voice behind me in the checkout line,
“I’m so glad you’re my Daddy, Daddy.
I love you always.”
“And I’ll always love you more,” I whisper.
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