Mother Daughter

By Mae Davage

mum, 

let me come home. 

make me tea  

and tell me you like my hair more like this,  

make offhand comments 

about how it’s much  

better when it’s short. 

ask why i never straighten it anymore. 

mum, 

let me watch the same episode of doctor who 

that we’ve seen millions of times before and sit with me while i do. 

tell me i need to learn to budget. ask me about the boy 

you want me to get back together with. i won’t mention how your eyes lit up when you learned i was with a man now. i won’t tell you how it sits 

in the air when you bring him up. 

mum, 

make my favourite dinner for me. ask me if i’m eating properly  

when i’m at uni, 

tell me i need to save  

if i want to stay after i graduate. i know we’re not made of money. don’t laugh at the thought  

of me moving home, 

we both know it isn’t funny. 

please mum, 

offer to wash my hair for me

when i have a bath. 

i’ll say no anyway, 

but i love it when you offer. 

ask me to show you my arms, check them for signs of damage and praise me when you don’t see any. it’s something to be proud of 

after all. 

mum,  

wake me up in the morning 

with coffee from dad’s machine we got a few christmases ago. but don’t comment on the length of my skirt when i come downstairs. just tell me it’s a nice outfit. 

or better yet, 

say nothing about it at all, 

just ask me how i slept, 

if i’m still having bad dreams, and tell me how early the cat 

woke you up. 

mum, 

let me be a person, 

but let me be young. 

just for today. 

just for these days. 

let me escape to a time 

before my skin was corrupted by my own sins 

and those of man, 

let me be a girl again.