Not my biological daughter but
there is a well of
overflowing
pride and love.

Little teenage poet,
tiny bookworm
like me;

I remember when
you were barely
four or three
and I would read
stories to you
before you
went to sleep.

“Another one,
another one,
another one,
please.”

Then just as I
was about to leave
smiling and saying
go to sleep
you would offer
to read to me.

Little smiling devil
how could I resist,
“just one more story
then to bed after it.”