3 sheets of paper,
gone missing.
Gnawing fear
in the pit of my stomach.
Shitty photocopies
taken with an app on my phone
are all I have left 
to prove my child is 
my own,
that she is a legally allowed
to call our home her own.
You cannot see it in the shape
of her eyes,
the curve of her smile,
her tangle of jet black hair,
but she’s mine.