I want to answer
with a wink
and give pancakes
names.
I want his baths
to be adventures
at sea
and less about
soap.
I want to invent
ludicrous stories
that rhyme.
I want to stalk
humour.
I want to earn his
rapture.
But why do I feel I need
permission
to be magical?
Who taught me that to mother
meant only
to minister?
The truth is
I am afraid if I am not careful,
if you played back
the journey
eighteen years from now,
I’ll wince
at the sound
of my voice.
So I will be firm,
I promise,
but let me also be
light.