Daddy's Little Girl - a Father's Day Poem
Relationships between Daughters and Dads
Many daughters and fathers have that “Daddy’s little girl” relationship. I was closer to my mother when I was a child, but I do remember experiencing a special feeling when my dad would give me some one-on-one attention. I spent lots of time with my mom, hanging out, talking about everything under the sun, taking walks, cooking, putting puzzles together—all kinds of things. My dad was much quieter and harder to get to know. Still, there are memories that stick with me after all these years, special moments with my dad that made me feel, if only for a short time, like Daddy’s little girl.
Daddy's Little Girl
Though time and miles
Keep us apart and much too far away,
I’m reminded of old and sweet times past
On today—Father’s Day.
The sweetest memory of you and me
That showed me that you care
Were those early mornings before grade school
When you would brush my hair.
Our lives so changed with separate homes
And fewer times together
But the ties we had and still do now
Will hold us close forever.
Scattered moments, fewer words—
A high price that we’ve paid.
But I’ll never forget the thrill I felt
When I’d bring you lemonade.
Our lives are different—busy and full—
My own is in a whirl.
But at times I long to go back in time
To be Daddy’s little girl.
- Haiku to my Dad - Father's Day Poem
A haiku to my dad for his birthday. Do you ever realize how much you are like your parents?
What I Remember as a Child
I do remember my dad brushing my long, naturally curly hair, carefully trying not to hurt my head. And the lemonade reference? That’s what he drank a lot of when I was a kid, so we always had it in the refrigerator. Sometimes he would ask me to go get him a glass, and I would feel a thrill in my chest as I ran off to do his bidding.
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And After Divorce
After my parents split up when I was thirteen, I didn’t see my dad as much. I had to work through the fact my folks were no longer together, the fact that I didn’t see my brothers as much, the fact that I had to change schools, and the fact that I would always have two houses to go to. Regardless of whether any of those things were good or bad, they were nevertheless changes to which I had to adjust.
If my relationship with my dad wasn’t as tight as it was with my mom, it was even less so after my parents divorced. I was a young girl who had to work through the issues of not having a father figure at the impressionable age of thirteen. Just to make it clear, though, my dad never deserted me. He was in my life as much as he could be during my busy teenage life, and, later, my college life. I visited off and on, never missing a Thanksgiving or Christmas, often making a Fourth of July or Memorial Day weekend. And my dad has never missed a birthday. Never. He attended my high school and college graduations. He drove to my college town for the day when I had an emergency appendectomy. And I've always known that he would be there for me no matter what. I've been lucky in that way.
Father's Day Poem and Gift
And Now That I'm All Grown Up?
After going through the challenges of high school and college, I started spending more time at my dad’s house again. And, over the years, as we—yes, my dad, too!—have grown and matured, I have developed a new appreciation, a desire to know my dad, and an even deeper love for him. One of the coolest things I came to know over the years was his sense of humor--often subtle and dry, sometimes silly and zany. And I've learned that he has depth, too, but has a hard time showing it--just as I do.
I gave the poem “Daddy’s Little Girl” to my dad in a frame on Father's Day back in 2002, I think. He hangs it in his bedroom to this day. I think he felt it as special to be his little girl’s daddy as it was for me to feel like “Daddy’s little girl.”
Video Card for Father's Day
And Let's Not Forget Mom!
- I'm Becoming my Mother! - a Mother's Day Poem
Can we always be "Mommy's little girl?" This poem explores memories of a mother-daughter relationship and the inevitability of growing up.
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