Iteration number 1 – the original
The Daughter He Created
Sometimes I wonder if my father is scared of me. Of the daughter he’s created.
If he’s scared of how I’ve gone from a little girl with ringlet curls and a holey smile to a woman with a pierced nose and a loud voice.
I used to run up to him to show him the frog or snake or other slimy thing I had cupped in my hand. Now I don’t run to him for anything.
When we watch a movie and I cringe at the man on screen I wonder if he cringes at me. As my voice gets loud and I define all the faults I see in that man I wonder if he thinks I’m talking about him.
When we watch a movie and I see the way he looks at the women on screen I cringe. The comments he makes and the way he views them make my stomach shrink. I hope he doesn’t think of me that way.
I used to want to view the world the way he did. He’d look up at the stars and I’d look too. I’d try to find what he was staring at. Now I hope I never come to be as negative as him.
I hate the fights I have with him. We both raise our voices and I refuse to back down. Something he taught me. I keep my emotions in check. I explain as well as I can. But he never seems to get it.
He never seems to understand I am the woman on the screen. I am the woman he doesn’t say goodnight to. I am the woman he whistles at on the street. He doesn’t understand we are all one. That his actions have consequences.
My voice dies down as I realize he won’t get it. Not because he can’t. Because he refuses. Some primal or subconscious piece of him won’t let him understand. He wouldn’t like the man he was if I was right.
So instead I end our conversation. I look at this man who used to cause such adoration in my chest and now I can only conjure a feeling of a mild disappointment. I have more questions about him than answers.
How can he do this to me? He raised two daughters, how can he still not understand? Is he really that thick headed? I know he’s not. He understands so much, why does he refuse to understand this?
Where did my father go?
Iteration number 2 – for this one I had gone through the peer review and gotten some feedback on the poem. The main one was that the second line seemed to be out of place. So I switched the last stanza around and tried to make it fit a bit better. I also changed some minor words which to me seemed to better the poem.
Sometimes I wonder if my father is scared of me.
If he’s scared of how I’ve gone from a little girl with ringlet curls and a holey smile to a woman with a pierced nose and a loud voice.
I used to run up to him to show him the frog or snake or other slimy thing I had cupped in my hand. Now I don’t run to him for anything.
When we watch a movie and I cringe at the man on screen I wonder if he cringes at me. As my tone becomes angry and I identify all the faults I see in that man I wonder if he thinks I’m talking about him.
When we watch a movie and I see the way he looks at the women on screen I cringe. The comments he makes and the way he seems to view them makes my stomach shrink. I hope he doesn’t think of me that way.
I used to want to see the world the way he did. He’d look up at the stars and I’d look too. I’d try to find what he was staring at. Now I hope I never inherit his negativity.
I hate the fights I have with him. We both raise our voices and I refuse to back down. Something he taught me. I try to rein in my emotions. I try to explain as well as I can. But he never seems to get it.
He never seems to understand I am the woman on the screen. I am the woman he doesn’t say goodnight to. I am the woman he whistles at on the street. He doesn’t understand we are all one.
My voice breaks as I realize he won’t get it. Not because he can’t. Because he refuses. Some primal or subconscious piece of him won’t let him understand. He wouldn’t like the man he was if I was right.
So instead I stop our conversation. I look at this man who used to cause such adoration in my chest and now I can only conjure a feeling of a mild disappointment. I have more questions about him than answers.
He raised two daughters, how can he still not understand? Is he really that thick headed? I know he’s not. He understands so much, why does he refuse to understand this? Where did my father go?
I think he’s scared of me. Of the daughter he created.
Iteration number 3 – For this one I only changed some minor words around which I thought might help the poem. I’m still not sure how I feel about the wording in the line, “As my tone becomes angry and I identify…” I don’t feel like identify is the right word but I cannot figure out what should go there. So this was my switch.
Sometimes I wonder if my father is scared of me.
If he’s scared of how I’ve gone from a little girl with ringlet curls and a holey smile to a woman with a pierced nose and a loud voice.
I used to run up to him to show him the frog or snake or slimy thing I had cupped in my hand. Now I don’t run to him for anything.
When we watch a movie and I cringe at the man on screen I wonder if he cringes at me. As my tone becomes angry and I point out all the faults I see in that man I wonder if he thinks I’m talking about him.
When we watch a movie and I see the way he looks at the women on screen I cringe. The comments he makes and the way he seems to view them makes my stomach shrink. I hope he doesn’t think of me that way.
I used to want to see the world the way he did. He’d look up at the stars and I’d look too. I’d try to find what he was staring at. Now I hope I never inherit his negativity.
I hate the fights I have with him. We both raise our voices and I refuse to back down. Something he taught me. I try to control my emotions. I try to explain as well as I can. But he never seems to get it.
He never seems to understand I am the woman on the screen. I am the woman he doesn’t say goodnight to. I am the woman he whistles at on the street. He doesn’t understand we are all one.
My voice breaks as I realize he won’t get it. Not because he can’t. Because he refuses. Some primal or subconscious piece of him won’t let him understand. He wouldn’t like the man he was if I was right.
So instead I stop our conversation. I look at this man who used to cause such adoration in my chest and now I can only conjure a feeling of a mild disappointment. I have more questions about him than answers.
He raised two daughters, how can he still not understand? Is he really that thick headed? I know he’s not. He understands so much, why does he refuse to understand this? Where did my father go?
I think he’s scared of me. Of the daughter he created.
