I Was a Terrible Mother
by Pauli Dutton

I never could find things. Like scissors.
Like that letter stuck in her backpack
announcing her math award.
Sometimes I gave up
combing the snarls from her hair.
I never got the hang of twisting French braids.
Her thrift shop clothes often hung long.
She was five when I bought her first new dress.
Flower-filled with a blue background
it matched her eyes.
By sixth grade it hung short but still her favorite.
Often, I made a huge meatloaf to last all week.
She hated it.
All she wanted was packaged macaroni and cheese.
I let her have it.
I only let her watch half an hour of TV a week.
Shows I liked. Murder She Wrote. Monk, HGTV.
Once I read her diary and felt terrible.
One time, I was an hour late picking her up from school.
She was alone, crying.
Once I scattered colored balls on a fake rubber plant
and told her it was our Christmas tree.
I thought I’d get away with it because she was only two.
She shook her head, picked up an ad and pointed
to a decorator tree with piles of presents.
I piled the presents high–22 that year.
She snuggled the secondhand Raggedy Ann doll, rolled
the red ball to me, put on the fireman’s hat
and asked, More?



 

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