Your picture hangs on my wall
wedged between faded reprints of
my father’s favorite bands
because you told me there should be a piece of you
along with me
each time I left for my father’s house
because the gifts of flower sheets and pink scarves
were a reminder.
My gifts, my daughter.
Because the christmas card of you and me
reads the Brown family every year
as though stripping my last name from me
will make me more yours.
Each strand of hair, each curling eyelash, each errant freckle
because I wish I had gotten my father’s eyes
because I replaced the picture of you
with another of my father's posters
and keep your photo underneath my pillow instead.
Because 8 years has passed,
and the arguments still echo
but I remain as the tenuous link
between
one shared past
and two different futures
because I am not his or yours,

you are mine.