She still sits there.
That little girl with two ponytails on each side of her head.
On the same bench.
On the same slide.
On the same swing.
She sits and she waits.
For those big, warm hands.
The hand that gives her back a push on that swing.
The hand that holds onto her tiny waist, when she slides.
The hand that pulls her close to warmth on the bench.
The hand that rests on her legs while she talks.
He doesn't come here anymore.
Mama says he was bad.
Mama doesn't know, he felt like dad.
The dad I never had.