I was six years old
I got a stuffed piglet
From you
For my birthday.
I remember the picture you took.
Laying on the white couch
In my purple shirt
Hugging that tiny piglet
Tears in my eyes.
Tears of excitement maybe
Or maybe sadness because I knew I couldn't stay forever.
Stay in your house
Were I felt safe
Loved
Wanted.
I was eight years old.
We found out we could stay
Or so we thought.
You told us we wouldn't have to live with her anymore
We celebrated.
I was so very excited to be safe
Loved
Wanted.
I was nine years old.
We went to Washington to go to the water park
For my birthday.
You bought me a purple teddy bear.
I named him President Theodore Roosevelt.
I thought I was clever.
Karla sent Kate and I to bed so the adults could hang out
I cried.
I didn't get to say goodnight to my Daddy on my birthday.
I wanted one more hug
Before my dreams too me to a place
Where I could be forever safe
Loved
Wanted.
I was eleven.
We didn't go to the Enchanted Forest for the first year
For my birthday.
You bought me a giant stuffed dog
You somehow squeezed him in a rather small box
So I couldn't guess what it was
Because I was always able to.
I named him Beethoven
To be Mozart's new friend.
Wrapped up in his soft, tan body
I felt ever so safe.
Loved.
Wanted.
I was thirteen
My first birthday actually living in Oregon.
You made a huge chocolate-chocolate cake
The one with chocolate chunks sticking out of the frosting.
I blew out the candles not having a wish
The wish I made for the past twelve years finally came true:
I was living with you.
I was only allowed one piece of that amazing cake
For I had a swim meet in two days.
We celebrated as a family.
There was this picture taken of Karla and I.
Both smiling.
This may be the last one taken of us happy.
At the time I felt so safe.
Loved.
Wanted.
I was sixteen.
Most girls got to go get their license on their sixteenth birthday.
I spent my day in bed
Crying.
I asked for the day off from work.
You even made me call to ask if I could work
When you found out and yelled.
You screamed and yelled how I was always disobeying you
How once again I ruined your plans.
You made me stay in my room all day
My phone was taken away
I don't think I even ate that day or the next
You brought me a piece of cake before you threw out the rest
I simply stared at the chocolate-chocolate cake through tears
Hating myself for ruining my birthday.
Hating you for allowing me to hate myself
For not letting me feel safe.
Loved.
Wanted.
I was eighteen
I woke up to chocolate-chocolate cake
Tina made for me;
She didn't even know it was a tradition.
I was surrounded by friends all day.
But you never even called.
You didn't send a text,
Write a note on Facebook, or even a message.
My daddy didn't even wish me a happy eighteen birthday.
Instead I got to go swimming,
Eat veggie kabobs Sam made,
Surround myself with people who make me feel safe.
Loved.
Wanted.
Tomorrow I turn nineteen.
I am ignoring my birthday.
I will say thank you to those who write on my Facebook wall
But with no phone I will only call my mom.
We may go to dinner, my wonderful boyfriend and I.
But I refuse to celebrate.
That would in turn be thanking the man who created me
Who will not call
Will not write
That one that doesn't even give a **** if I am even still alive.
Who doesn't know where I am.
The one who kicked me out before I even turned eighteen.
That man who I am supposed to call my father.
My daddy who used to hug me
Hold me when I was scared
Made me feel safe
Loved
Wanted.
That same man who now makes me feel unworthy
Lost, confused, sad, angry beyond belief,
Because he won't even call me on my birthday.
So happy birthday to me!
I will not celebrate knowing the man who gave me life
The man who nineteen years ago held his baby girl
Not knowing he would one day ruin her
Make her feel so vulnerable
Unloved
Unwanted
On her birthday.

I like a tough steak at a regular steak house
(I'm one of those people that doesn't have to have everything tender)
Filet Mignon the spaced out king
pricey Prime Rib
a juicy T-Bone
steak kabobs
a decent well-done steak sandwich,
the non-fatty round steak that
mother used to make
a real rare piece of steak
a cooked by me steak at a
real nice steak house
where the gimmick is cook your own
except for their steak kabob
same with Mister Steak,
that and Outback Steak House in general
Longhorn's will do for something like that!

An open Rosary,
Sprawled on the table
Has the shape of Eire.
Towns joined like beads
On winding, rope roads.
At the end of the main street
In Shercock, Lough Egish,
Or a thousand other towns,
Looms the church spire,
God's rod.
The square still bustles on Wednesdays.
The smithy's forge
Now lights up a Paddy Power;
The Euro Store sells needles and thread
Where once a seamstress sat;
Shish Kabobs on flat bread sell
Where the butcher's counter displayed the day's cut.
But scrape away the paint
And attend to the devotion and mystery
Of small town Erin;
Where only the pubs maintain names
Decade after decade.
There, on the wall, see the rebels
Enjoying a football match,
And the crowd, laughing,
Has their backs.

‘Twas a sultry night, when you solemnly inquired –
“Would you like to have a piece of meat?”
A conscientious vegan like myself, rarely required
such unwarranted delicacies to eat.

Startled as I was, to myself I reasoned:
” it’s not as if I indulge every day –
and if a prime rib beckons, so perfectly seasoned
then even I’m allowed to go astray ”

you proffered to me, a choicey cut
Yet I waited for the perfect buy-ins;
lean and trim, the steaks were high, but–
the deal was only for the tenderloins.

Alas dear reader, that is where I mistook
my desires for a saucy brisket,
for in truth it was that I fancied the cook
but such emotions to flourish – I couldn’t risk it.

To grill is a skill that must be honed –
To be well-done is indeed so rare!
the merriment came not from being T-*****
though it wasn’t half bad, to be rather fair.

And oh my dear you had me speared
upon your metaphorical spit,
and thus Impaled like kabobs I seared,
upon fires of desires that befit.

One such night, I denied myself a meal
thinking it to be fine and dandy
what did it matter, venison or veal
when in truth, I wasn’t really randy

To my shock, what I had thought was written-
as my appetite for fleshy delights,
was instead that I was undoubtedly smitten,
indulging my fancies in the chef’s invites.

Oh then I realized, I was in a stew
of a situation I never appraised
My untimely declaration sent your spits askew
When I said I want you preserved, not braised.

And of course, as I knew, you shook your head
said kinds words and went on ahead
But dearest, nigh a mo’ had I expected more
than being hastily pushed out of the door.

For cooks cook, but must not be mistook
for another entree to be had, for sure.
The dish is what the cook will cook
but the cook is not the dish d’jour.

Cured I was of such carnal an error
much wiser a decision I’d made I wish
for a recipe for disaster is every chef’s terror
when a patron, as I, butchers a perfect dish.

A lesson I learnt, one you taught so fast
’twas not a lesson in grilling —
but to choose a more delectable repast
one that thought that I was equally thrilling.

But to be fair, I give credit much deserved
to a palatable person as you
for Grade A and gourmet are commonly served
and yet only to you I succumbed without ado.

For as a vegan, I religiously abstain
from undue pleasures of the flesh
yet while the romps of meats were not in vain
I paid my compliments only to the chef…