A borrowed history
A second-hand life
A true heritage denied.
This stranger sapling grafted to your family tree.
And the story told, to them and me;
" You were chosen, you are special, we were lucky..."
So you won.
Here's your prize;
A commodity baby, a charity child
Love conditionality and gratitude implied.
Woken from connection and amniotic peace
To a secret story of threefold grief.
I was taken from my First Mother when I was 10 days old by closed adoption. This was common in the UK until the early 1970s, a process whereby the baby was given to the adoptive family and the original birth records sealeduntil the child was 18. This poem is about the strangeness of being a strangling, and in no way negates the love of my adoptive parents. I am now, finally, glad I am alive and able to share this part of my story, dedicated to all my parents, and all those who have shared this experience
