Qu'elle soit elle.

She's smiling sweetly, sitting on her chair, drinking her grenadine. She laughs at something her brother just said.
I exclaim: "Awe, you're so cute!"
She looks at me with wild eyes.
"No, I'm not! I'm Flora!"
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She's dancing about, jumping, singing along the tune on the radio. Her ease with words, her remarkable ability to chat at such a young age amazes me. I look at her with awe.
I exclaim: "Oh, you're such a big girl now!"
She looks at me with a grump.
"No, I'm not! I'm Flora!"
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We're chatting in the bathroom. We're getting ready for the night. She's wearing her new footless pyjama, standing on the changing table. She stretches, and looks at her reflection with a smile. Her head is above mine in the mirror.
I exclaim: "Look! You're so tall!"
She looks at me annoyed.
"No, I'm not! I'm Flora!"
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You might think she's cute, big or tall. You might even be right.
But that's on you, she doesn't care.
What you think doesn't matter.
Your labels, however sweet, don't belong to her.
She is Flora.
That's the only definition that could ever suit her.