By Mona Hassanzadeh
A little girl grew up, hearing
“A girl’s first love is her father,”
But no one ever told her, that love comes
In different forms. She never learned that
Not every love will be picture perfect,
Not every love will be shown only through words.
She looked at her father, the person who was to be
An example of the man she was to find
And wondered why she never heard
Of his love.
Not once did she get a pat on the back
Or hear those three little words, that hold the power
That set her on the path to find what she believed
Was the most valuable of all.
She saw the life he struggled to build,
Only so she never experienced pain,
Never felt the need to extend her hand
Out toward anyone.
But in her little heart, she yearned
Not only to know of the love he held
But to hear of it, see it.
She never cared for the money
that others cared for.
She cared for that hand
that gently caressed her hair,
The one that others never cared for.
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