Parental Love (Poetry)

Phil Larkin warned they fuck us up
but much too late for me —
mine should’ve got the “World’s Worst” cup
awarded annually.

We jumped through all the proper hoops,
made out, as best we could,
morale was high amongst the troops,
the turn out passing good.

A sham called happy families,
the roles too rigid, set
to scar — tattooed indelibly
deep patterns of regret.

When I became a parent, too,
I vowed to break the mould —
foolish, thought I could undo
old damage, buried cold.

Hypocrisy’s bad blood will out —
caused her young heart to flinch,
undermined by seeds of doubt,
infected inch by inch.

My daughter left — the dream I built
abandoned for all that
I wrestled with inherent guilt —
I should have had a cat.