No Blood No Bandaid

I didn't know of the daycare daymare,
that, at four, she was humiliated over
using a sipper cup (she liked them),
or about the gummy-bear disaster --
all the kids sitting, squirming, with her
in the last row, patient, inwardly giddy --
and no bears left, didn't know of the
No Blood No Bandaid Edict, that she had
a paper cut, with trickle so tiny, it was
deemed insignificant, that finances or the
Policy's instigator, or both, were that tight,
didn't know of the mothering game, how
they took turns as the day waned, that a
girl with a purple coat cheerily waved,
“you be the Mommy now,” except
there was no one left to nurture.
Five years later, she shares.
I listen and say, I'm the Mommy now.