A politically correct complaint
In a UC Methodist Daycare
You can’t say K-i-l-l
And he was h-a-n-g-e-d!
What if they go home and ask what that means?
He’s got to change the story.
It’s the Bible…
Fold your hands little children
Let’s pray for what’s important
Thank you God for our food,
For good little boys and girls
And for our soldiers Amen.
Brainwashed to worship the violent
Without calling it what it is.
These precious little children
With burdens too big, too old
For their tiny little shoulders.
Cayden’s tired again
Yesterday he was angry
Daddy’s not coming back.
Ella apologizes when voices get loud
It’s knee jerk and whining
She’s scared. She’s flinching
Don’t hurt me!
She let slip more than once.
Rowan is angry at her Mom
She’s left her with the babysitter again
She won’t be there at home
Throws the toys.
Joseph gets ignored
Signed up for speech
But his parents don’t speak English
It’s an accent,
That’s why he’s so quiet
They ignore his lilted words anyway.
There they are our precious children
Sitting in rows at four years old
Waiting with hopeful eyes to get called next
Nanny, Nana, or Sitter
Is coming next to get them?
K’Prew is there last.
She holds one finger up to me
And waits for me to touch
My pointer finger to hers
She laughs freely then runs toward the door.
It’s her Mom who picks her up
She’s smiling at thinking that
People actually single her daughter out
And give her personal attention
They take time to make her feel special.
But there are 24 kids in one room
They are under 6 and there’s a curriculum
Most of the time it’s
Sh! Sit down! Stop that!
But every once in a while
It’s simple little moments
Taken just for a second
Just long enough to make them feel special.