The Invisible Parent

the pain I felt

when a person asked me

if this daughter,

the one I had spent ten hours and more

in labor for

with her head down but facing the wrong way,

sunny-side up, they call it, though there’s nothing sunny about it,

this person asked

if my daughter, mine, was adopted

the blood I had spilt in birthing her

suddenly translucent, then erased.

the looks when we are out

the glances askance

I can see the question that goes unasked:

“Is she your daughter?”

mouths open, close, eyebrows raised and hands unsure

I want to scream at them

“Even if there was no blood-bond

she would still be mine, mine

bound by my love which is boundless

the only infinite thing

I am sure of

the first person I ever loved perfectly.

but to them

how could she possibly be mine

being the parent of no-color

my contribution therefore minimal

and I am invisible . . .

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