It happens, her father wanted a son,
Disappointed, her mother didn’t give him one.
She plays football with the lads
Watched by other pinch faced, cold, dads;
Never hers in that huddled touchline group,
At home her Mum prepares consoling soup,
Knows her daughter’s bound to grow
Into another wife with a different life
That’s much the same, though a tougher game,
Where the goal posts shift to varying widths
And daughters are own goals, discounted gifts.
This poem is about a girl I was at school with, she was beautiful, talented, and unloved. I hope she found more happiness as she grew older.”