you ask me why my child is better,
as if the answer could be written in a letter.
it is not in the eyes, or the laugh, or the grace,
but in the curated future, the unearned space.

we did not pass down a name, or a plot of land,
but a edited promise, by this steady hand.
a scrubbed and polished genetic code,
a lighter, cleverer, prettier load.
we bought the blueprint, paid the fee,
for what we were promised she would be.

this is how status is passed on now,
not through stories, or a sacred vow,
but in the clinic, under lights so clean,
splicing the arrogant and the serene.
we built our scaffold of right and chance,
on the oldest, deepest scam of them all,
that worth is written in the dance
of proteins, waiting for our call.

but the scarring is visible, though we hide the seams.
her perfection is a language that drowns out her dreams.
she is optimized, elegant, a beautiful thought,
but her humanity was the one thing we forgot.
we gave her every advantage, every possible start,
and sterilized the wildness out of her heart.

she is better than your kids, yes, that’s what we say,
in the most expensive, hollowest way.
for we have not raised a child, truly,
but manufactured a monument to our own folly.
a mirror reflecting our hungry disgrace,
another lie carved into a face.

and when she looks upon your children, loud and flawed and free,
the one true thing she’ll ever want is everything we
edited out.