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To My Daughter In Her Father's House
You call at bedtime
to say you miss me,
and love me,
and wish I was there.
"Pretend it's an apartment,"
I tell you, "with two ends,
and a long hall between us."
We build the hall,
paint it blue,
and polish a wooden bike trail
for you to ride from there
to here.
"It's underground," you say,
so there will be no traffic,"
and then we kiss good-night
in the old way
before sleep.
By Penny Harter
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