She walks in for another week at home
already whining and crying and complaining.
The first thing I wanna say is,
“You have gotta be kidding me.”
Hardly here a minute
already giving her dad grief
when he does everything for her
and mine does nothing for me.

“It isn’t fair!” she moans,
every time her dad won’t buy her
whatever new expensive thing she wants this time.

But I’d like to tell her what really isn’t fair.
Living with diabetes
or having prosthetic limbs
or being abused at home.
Maybe she should be like thousands of girls in Africa,
pregnant and with AIDS,
or at the very least she could be without a dad who loves her.
Perhaps then she could say
that life isn’t fair.