A mustachioed vampire dad dies
To the poet's oppressed girl self
Of bare ten years, now in eighty
No, no, only an imagined thought.

Not a smiling brooding  hero dad 
One she would have killed at ten
And beyond if he had lived after.

At thirty suicide was not a thought
But a pleasurable revenge on dad
And being one up on death and dad.
Death was her dad in the gas oven
Who gave breath now takes it away.

(Sylvia Plath would have turned eighty today had she not committed suicide at thirty)

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