My children, I must take pen in hand
And with a feeling of inadequacy espouse
The love in my heart for each of you –
My adopted, those born into my house.
What man, blinded by vanity proclaims
To be proof of materialist might
In truth is a gift of a gracious Lord
Bringing into darkness blessed light.
For he is a fool, an egotist,
One cloaked as a clown complete
Who can view as his own with prideful eye
An infant of perfection so pure and sweet.
It matters not which mother’s womb
Is the portal for its wordly fare,
For they are all children of the Lord,
Entrusted with love to a parent’s care.
What makes a parent in the truest sense
Is this feeling of love innate,
And has nought to do, as some would say
With our duty to procreate.
Therefore, I, as your dad cannot feel
That this one is mine, that of another.
For this parental love is a wondrous thing,
Which·has been granted to me and your mother.
A love that’s whole need not be shared,
Regardless how many partake.
The more it is given, the more it grows
As do blessings that flow in its wake.
So when it should seem as I’m sure it must
That at times your dad is unfair,
Remember he loves you very much –
But being human is prone to err.
How can I tell you of the warmth
That wells up in this breast of mine
When I see within your eyes a light
Which says, dad everything is fine.
Or of the anguished, painful thoughts
That shroud the sun from view
When with a thoughtless word or deed
I cause some hurt to you.
So often I lay awake at night
Where in the dark I can hide.
And give vent to the sorrow I feel –
To the tears I’ve held inside.
For if it’s pain you feel, I feel it too.
My children I wish you to know
That all I say and do is meant
As a guide to help you grow.
This then is the nature of parental love,
The length and the breadth of this poem,
Abundantly given to each alike –
My adopted, those born unto my home.
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