I cannot judge a man who sold bread
On streets as a child so his mother could eat.
For struggling with anger, with money,
With me.

It is his first time being a father,
It is his first time loving something so small
I scream at myself, I say it over and over.
It does not make it hurt less.

He is learning, he is changing,
But I am a collection of his trials and errors.
He cannot bear to be reminded of his mistakes.
And so he cannot know who I am.

I am just a silly lucky girl.
I have no worries.
I am hurt, I am understanding,
I am tired, yet I sacrifice,
I do not ask, yet I ask for too much.
I am his first daughter.
I am still, somehow, ungrateful.

I am sorry that I need you Father,
I am sorry that I am.
I am sorry.