Tangled

When my daughter doesn't brush her hair
the strands clump into a knot
at the back of her head the size of a softball,
and I go hard inside,
because I've told her
a hundred times
to care for herself.
“You look like you have no Mother,” I say,
the knot in my stomach
tight as the one in her hair,
as I disappear into memories
of messy-haired girls,
and how my mother and I judged
their mothers.

We are late for school, but still, I brush
my daughter's hair so she can go to the assembly
and accept her citizenship award
groomed and cared for like the affluent,
only child she is. I say,
“This is your job! If you'd brush your
hair every day we wouldn't be in this mess!”
I show her again how to brush
from the bottom up, struggling to use gentle strokes,
as I seethe at every “Ouch” and “That hurts!”

I am unprepared for this,
a daughter
who doesn't worry the way I do,
who would go out into the world
and expose her weakness,
her flaws, who would go out
into the world exactly the way she is.

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