Poem for My Future Daughter

Our world will be yours—the earthworms
squiggling between your toes after every storm,
the gold-slick yolk that sings in your father’s pan,
the sharp trill of your jump rope snapping the pavement.
You will smear ketchup across your favorite white shirt
at McDonald’s on a Friday after ballet, you’ll stack
jokers and aces into towers of luck. Don’t worry—
everyone will love you more for it. Your grandmother
will bless the cabbage you’ll help submerge in thick
spicy kimchi paste. Even if you don’t
solve 2+3 in front of your crush—you’ll always have
your mother. If you happen to have a little brother, perhaps
even a glistening spark of a little sister, will you let them
comb your Barbie’s hair even if their sticky hands leave
graham cracker dust in her curls? If you have
no siblings at all, will you comb her hair
with your best friends? Nothing hurts more
than turned backs and giggles, other girls shielding
their Barbies from you. Never be that girl. Be the girl
walking on yellow raised dots with an old woman
after she loses her cane. Be the girl who hurls
bread crumbs at the seagulls, the girl who defends herself
when a man tickles her thighs or spits on her shoes.
Your lips hold the magic of speech—of delivering
flower beds & fireworks with every Mom, I’m hungry!
and God, I hate this. Each time, doves will circle you
to shape a halo. And when your next book drive comes—
your mother will help you knock on doors. She’ll help you
learn the cha-cha, or make an omelet with extra cheese.
She’ll even help you unknit your ribcage when you need
help sharing yourself with the world.
(Your mother had trouble, too.)