The thousandth, drawn out, pleading “Daddy” of the day
Grates like corroded metal on raw patience.
A long breath hisses inward between teeth clenched without volition
Look up, let the breath hiss back out, tuck the aggravation away.
Two more “Daddy”s have passed, whining, in the composure time
Demanded by the thousandth.

Yes, hon. I turn away from the work that feeds and houses us to ask. What is it?
“How do I make a table?” She replies, waving a tablet under my nose
A resilient sleeve of brilliant plastics making the experience immeasurably pinker.

I ask, resigned, what kind of table she needs.
A crafting table?  To bend the blocky materials of her world to her will?
An enchanting table?  To twist the magics of that bind all life in ways clever and profane?
An alchemy table?  To brew elixirs of power and danger unguessed at outside of imagination and helpful wikis?

“No daddy, a table like the villagers have.”
A what?  I inquire, befuddled by the purpose and construction of this apparent necessity.
“Look!” She turns her tablet and shows me the treasure her tiny heart desires.

Ah.  A fence post with a slab on it. I see.
I explain as much, and a smile splits her gap-toothed face.
With a voice like heaven’s wind chimes she says “Thank you, Daddy!”
And one-thousand-and-four makes all the ones before more than worthwhile.

I return to work with a smile
as she plunges once more into the realm of blocks and creepers.
I settle into a pace, reminded of why I do it in the first place.

And then the air splits with a shout: “DAAADDY!”
“HOW DO YOU SPELL ‘FENCE’?”