I will not birth my daughter onto a scale
She will not be measured in pounds or ounces
My stomach will not deflate by inches or shirt sizes
I will measure my daughter in laughs and babbles, then toddles and wobbles, then monkey bars and scraped knees
We will eat ice cream and zucchini, on hot nights we will order fast food fries from a cheap drive-in run by highschool girls
And I will want to hold their hands and shake their heads and tell them to measure themselves with dandelion crowns and speeding tickets
I will measure my daughter in the short-stories she writes, the dress code violations she gathers like trophies, the baby birds she saves in boxes
I will make her cry when she asks for a scale and I say no, I will make her scream when I delete her calorie-counting app and bring home pie
Cherry will be her favourite and she will ask me to hide it at the back of the fridge
And I will build it a shrine and always have a slice ready when she wants it
I will cry late at night when she cannot hear it about how much I miss my toxic love the scale
And I'll find a great therapist and meet three times a week and let her open my eyes and wipe my tears 
I will measure my daughter in student council elections and meeting with the principals and watermelon rinds
I'll measure her in breathalyzer tests and menstrual cups and trips to new york city
When she asks if I see her as fat or skinny I will reach down her throat and snuff out her false hope
I will say I never looked, and I will be telling the truth
I might measure her in tears, or kisses, or late nights over math homework
But I will not measure her in pounds or ounces