“Look, Daddy, look!”
She stood at her fathers side,
A colourful masterpiece held with pride,
The best she’d ever done,
In her three years of life,
The colours glistening brightly on the page,
Glistening in those abstract shapes.
He picked her up and put her down
on the floor again,
Ruffled her hair,
“Not now, sweetie, Daddy’s busy.”

“Look, Daddy, look!”
Her first play-mate,
Stood with her this time,
Smiling brightly from eye to eye,
The greatest friend she’d ever have,
In her six year old eyes,
They stood hand in hand,
And awaited a reply.
He glanced at them,
And smiled,
“Not now, sweetie, Daddy’s busy.”

“Look, Daddy, look!”
Her outstretched hands,
Held a party hat,
Searched for a blue one,
She was proud of that,
Double digits, ‘big one-oh,’
Said to be important,
This she did know,
So she asked him to join them.
He didn’t look but smiled,
“Not now, sweetie, Daddy’s busy.”

“Look, Daddy, look!”
She had her boyfriend with her,
Her very first one,
She hoped he would last,
All her fifteen years had gone so fast,
He was a handsome young man,
Kind, sweet and caring,
She’d taken him with her,
To shake her father’s hand.
He only glanced,
“Not now, sweetie, Daddy’s busy.”

“Look, Daddy, look.”
She held her right wrist in a cast,
The first injury to need one,
In all twenty-one of her years,
She wanted him to know,
Of the wreckless motorcycle accident,
But would rather him hear tell,
Of her left wrist with the scars,
Scratched over her veins.
He looked at her briefly,
“Not now, sweetie, Daddy’s busy.”

“Look, Daddy. Look.”
The red ran from the wound,
In her twenty-eight year old skin,
It ran fast and smooth,
Suicide’s a sin,
But what else could she do,
Try as she might,
To get his attention,
And his recognition.
She fell to the ground.
“Not now, sweetie, Daddy’s busy.”

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