My daughter once divorced me
when she was about eleven.
She accused me of too much “Virgo-ing”,
as she so noted in her claim,
and my lame attempts at moon-walking,
were, she said, “embarrassing to me”.

She was tired of me not listening
to her pleas regarding her lunches–
“I don’t want any mustard or mayo
on any of my sandwiches!”

 I admit this, Your Honor– I couldn’t
seem to accept that anyone would
prefer plain, dry cheese bread?

 She also declared that I yanked her head
while brushing her hair one day.

 Well maybe I did, just that once, Sir,
but she kept repeatedly jerking it away.

She hated her bedroom wallpaper–
that “flowery, ugly red print”,

 I agree, you’re so right, Judge; I should have first
obtained her consent.

 I made her wear barrettes in her hair, to
keep her bangs at bay and couldn’t I find
another color besides pink for her to wear?

She complained that I wanted to kiss her
and have an occasional hug–
and why, oh why, did I hover around
and actually talk to all of her friends?
Also, spelled out in her detailed grievance,
was her request for our Sheltie, Leon;
And to wrap it all up–she wanted the house
and all of the contents within.

She drew up the document herself
on her own parent-provided computer
and then ceremoniously hand-delivered
it to me to regale in my expression of horror.

I still have that paper after all of these years to
remind me of that fateful era, when my own dear
daughter went to the extreme of “punking”
her long-suffering mother.