If she was Emelyn, she’d be tall and strong.
Dark-haired and bright-eyed,
with a glorious fringe of thick lashes.
She'd take her time refining her opinions,
but she'd be rock solid in them.
When she spoke,
her voice would be clear and confident.
She'd probably be liberal.
Would she be captain of the debate team?
A clear leader on the volleyball court?
A quiet girl who preferred the piano, books, and dolls
to slumber parties?
If she was Emelyn, she’d be a daddy’s girl.
She’d know how to jump start her mother’s car,
and she’d play trombone or euphonium in the school band.
She’d be kind, friendly,
but not overly polite or warm.
(She'd get that from her father.)
Her daddy's freckles hiding beneath mommy's permanent tan.
Perhaps a hint of red in her hair?
She’d have a streak of wild in her.
(She'd get that from both of us.)
If she was Emelyn, I’d be changing her diaper,
or feeding her at my breast,
or rocking her gently to sleep.
Long, tiny fingers wrapped around mine.
She’d be helpless,
a whole world open to her.
A whole life ahead.
She’d be loved,
But it wasn’t Emelyn.