Every feminist writes a poem about her mother.

I was never your crafty child, Mom,

that was my sister. I was no use on Mother’s Day

but I did think it was very artistic

to write you poems penciled on lined paper

in abab rhyme and so did you,

because the only poetry we’d ever read when I was seven

was Roald Dahl’s.

When I was nine I thought I’d step it up a notch

and make you something you could actually

tell the neighbors about.

I fashioned your heart into a fridge magnet

out of white clay with my grubby hands

and left my fingerprints all over its lopsided form.

To salvage my effort I engineered a square patch and

stuck it over the left side, painted it my favorite colors

and scrawled on it a cliche inspired by “Lilo and Stich”:

A mother’s love is not perfect, but still good.

Deliberate imperfection is okay; it is

crafty. I thought that was what artists did;

I thought they made perfectly ugly things,

and I just wanted to be artistic.

Look how I redeemed your heart, Mom,

you were so proud you

even put it on the fridge which I walk past now

when I am home every few weeks or so.

The coral shade has faded into peach

and the words are unfamiliar although

they are still bold and stupid.

A mother’s love is not perfect, but still good.

Between questioning my own intelligence

and wondering if I will again five years from now

I try to practice the words I believed were genius

that night I painted them in my best handwriting and

my tongue plastered firmly on the corner of my mouth.

Love is a difficult thing to pronounce

after all those nights of

if you don’t stop seeing that girl don’t call me Mom

and my lies and your tears and your tears and my lies

like last night when I left out the “vagina” in “the monologues”

I told you I would be doing. It was terrific and

for the first time I felt crafty but you could not see it.

I was always very good at bringing out the ugly in your heart

with my own bare hands leaving bruises

and making statements with my hair and clothes and

lifestyle.

A mother’s love is not perfect, but still good.

I write grown-up things now.