Thievery
I steal a pen back
that my daughter stole from me.
We are thieves in our family,
scroungers, we scan surfaces
for shiny things, like pickpockets
but with much less stealth.
She has borrowed other things –
her auburn hair (I lie, it was a gift)
and freckles the bright colour of rust.
Her eyes, too, are mine.
She used to wear my shoes but
she stole her father’s height
so now I own a pair of hers
she’s grown out of. I argue
they should be hand me ups but
she is defiant: I am shorter than her
and until I disappear, she will
always outgrow me -
the very height
of thievery.
