I spend a lot of time on Ancestry.com and other DNA sites hoping to find answerers about being a lovable bastard. I’ve built a family tree of nearly 40,000 ancestors, most of whom have unfortunately taken their earthly knowledge to the grave. My initial hope was to find physically-like relatives, thinking this would somehow satisfy my curiosity. I have found and spoken with several understanding half-sisters and now have photographs of my birth father that passed eleven years ago. I am happy to report that there is a common resemblance. The bio-mother and her family remain unresponsive after claims that all this scientific, hospital, and adoption agency evidence that I have is incorrect. Apparently, my birth never happened, so may childhood fantasies of being born to a Queen may still be true. In my poem that I wrote today, this too is an example of poetic license, along with another reference to heaven above:

Dozens of Cousins

We all have a mother,
But I have had two.
One that gave birth,
Another I well knew.

My family adopted,
Without D-N-A..
While others genetic,
Strangers to this day.

Aunts and Uncles,
There were dozens.
And my family tree,
Shows plenty of cousins.

All were related,
But some through genes.
No, not denim,
By scientific means.

I grew up not knowing,
The difference between.
And once fantasized,
I was born to a Queen.

I got plenty of love,
And everything I wanted.
But something was missing,
And so I hunted.

I needed to see,
Physical resemblance.
Thinking that life,
Would then make sense.

But the bio mom,
Now claims who?
And her lover,
Had no clue.

There are pictures,
And siblings, too.
But they won’t replace,
The relatives I knew.

Cousins I grew up with,
And parents full of love.
A sister that I lived with,
And grandparents now above.

Familiarity is everything,
Genes don’t mean a thing.
I’m grateful for my life,
But it started as a fling.

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