I am one of those people
fortunate enough
to have been born
to parents
who love me enough
to tell me they do.
.
.
My mom tells me
she loves me
(and I know she loves me)
(and I know she loves me)
by understanding
my artistic bent,
by putting her momness aside
to help me design
my new tattoo,
and by the way we giggle.
She tells me
by having ears
that know how to read
between tears & theories,
by being my Team Captain,
the leader of my fan club,
and by answering the phone
at ungodly hours
to God-knows-what kind
of urgent situation
and for not being mad at me
for the time she picked up
to the sound of
bloody murder
and sobs
and it turns out
it was just
a spider.
.
.
My dad tells me
he loves me
(and I know he loves me)
in the way
he answers my questions
with thought
even when
it is the same one
I asked him
last time.
He takes me out
for bacon and eggs
or coffee
and listens to my wobbles
and wanderings
then engages me
and makes me stronger;
he is the kind of man
who teaches me
my voice counts;
my shoulders square
when I remember
I am his
and I therefore
have things to say.
When he is in the room,
I am not afraid
of spiders.