I used to cry every night thinking about how you were gone.
There was no longer a me and you.
I know we met when I was nine and I can assure you I had fun times.
But slowly the memory fades of the one year that we spent together.
I’m 17 now and I finally understand why you were never around.

I came to a conclusion that I was never supposed to exist that I was an accident.
The thought of that makes my heart ache maybe more than it should.
I think I should just start calling you a deadbeat, considering you were never there,
No matter how much I wanted you here,
Karma does exist as well.
Every time we communicate now it’s nothing but fights and arguments that can’t be resolved. I know I should’ve known better, but I’m just a girl with a broken heart who wishes for father better than the one she has.


I don’t know you and you don’t me.
Maybe, perhaps you do know the little things like my hair is strawberry ginger, I have some of your facial features, and maybe even your smile. but I know that’s not good enough for you considering you request multiple DNA test just to confirm that I’m your daughter. You’ve had 10 and you still don’t believe it. I know you’re my dad, but you will never be my father.

What hurts the most is when you look at me you see right through me,
You don’t even take the time to notice anything about me.
Do you think just because I have strawberry ginger hair that I’m automatically somebody else’s daughter or switched at birth or any other scenarios that can pop up in your head.

The reason I have ginger hair is because my past grandma had it when she was younger.
I mean sure your hair is pitch black and my mom is dirty blonde but that does not mean that I’m not your daughter. DNA can look weird but do you know it’s the only thing that proves who I am connected to and that is you.

I see now how it’s a waste of time to try and reach out,
Every time I wanna talk to you about me and tell you what I’ve accomplished in life you always find a reason to bring up your other two daughters or your son from another mother.
You call it jealousy, but I call it heartbreak. It’s not that I don’t want to hear about them it’s just how can I talk to you about them when you were never there to help raise me.