I am not my mother’s daughter- in the sense of genetics, yes,
but in the sense of heart and the way my body goes through
seasons like the tide changes with each impending moon cycle, no.
I am no one’s perfect blueprint, no one’s carbon copy.
I am not an apology either, not an apology for being born prematurely
and as a consequence always being the first one to fall in love
or predict storms that never end up arriving.
My bones are decades’ worth of preparations for leaving:
leaving of my childhood home, leaving of my skin behind,
leaving of the person I thought was someone else
for another person who really is someone else.
And I am not my father’s daughter either.
Our blood may flow in the same direction and our rough hands
are capable both of great love and great violence,
but I am also capable
of not being defined by the person whose DNA
exists in double helices inside every inch of my body.
I am my own.
Not my mother’s daughter, nor my father’s.
I am me.