"You didn't see me touch the cake,"
 My youngest daughter pouts,
"How can you lay the blame on me
 And not have any doubts?"

I look into her tearful eyes,
 Then at her messy lips
Which match the icing on her dress
 And sticky fingertips.

A trail of crumbs leads from the cake
 Across the kitchen floor,
Then up the staircase, down the hall,
 Right to my daughter's door.

"How do you know?" she asks again,
 "Do you have ESP?"

"I'm just your mother," I replied,
 "With two good eyes that see."