What My Father Sees

My father calls me Princess, but I am not
a princess, no blue blood flows
through my arteries, just simple, ordinary red;
I have no regal bearing or crown to give
me majesty, no scepter of dignity,
just the awkwardness of youth.

My father calls me beautiful but I have
no beauty, just bony legs and toothpick arms,
lemons instead of breasts, wispy hair
that clouds my face, metal wires that shroud
my teeth, and a walk that will never imitate
the glide of a matinee idol.

My father calls me sweetheart but how
can I be sweet when misery swirls
through this ungainly body; when I secretly rage
at the bubbly cheerleaders and want to
be one of them, one of those perfect
shiny-haired, dazzling-smiled,
male-attention-getting females; when each day
is a horrid example of all that I am not.

Adolescence has gone and with its passing
comes a new maturity.

If only I could have seen
what my father always saw.