She gave me life and, yes, I love her still,
It knots up all the feelings in my gut
With meals she’s made, of which I’ve had my fill.
I want to give my thanks to her here, but…
I find it hard to write about my mother.
Why fumble with her sheer perfection?
Why scramble impressions like she was any other?
Try a pastry, or some other confection.
I cannot write about my mother’s ills,
I’ve suffered hardly any qualms from her.
What few there were have largely been my spills,
The ones that now to me occur.
For above and beyond he’s held me fast and tight
I shouldn’t do this, couldn’t do it right.