They said the most confusing day in my house
was father's day, but my mom knows
who all the dads are, there are just so many of them.
A modern broken-home-not-broken
so-don't-fix-it kind of family
with brothers in halves,
& full-fledged, wish-it-weren't-so siblings
that share my nose, or one eye, a hand gesture.
The rest are spare parts of people only connected by this;
my matronly Lego block in the DNA chain
weaving it's way through my house.
We are the left over parts in a jumble sale,
the pink elephant, go-fish prize surprise bag
clean white crispness with a mish-mashed inside.
last generation's black sheep,
this generation's norm.
I'm normal now with divorced parents,
extra-marital affairs, out of wedlock newborns
born as a sign of now but called sister or brother
Not half because that will make them unwanted
In a modern broken-not-broken-home
of my generation.
If you've any comments on this poem, Heather Taylor would be pleased to hear from you.