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Friday, April 3, 2015

SHE DIDN’T WRITE ABOUT

how pink smells like pretty flowers,
how it feels like butterfly wings or
that it tastes like cotton candy and
it doesn’t remind her of Barbie’s car.

Instead she writes hers about a ham.
It is pink, cooked with yummy pineapples,
honey and sugar stuck all over the top.
I tell her she kind of missed the point.

Later, as I collect papers from the class
she tells me why her poem is about ham.
No one ever made a meal that I asked for.
This Sunday, my grandmother is making
ham because I told her I like it so much.

I don’t see my mother much anymore.
My parents are really my grandparents.
The others all have moms and dads, so
I never told them. I tell her it was the same
for me growing up, but it was my father
who I never saw. Smiling now, she tells me-

“And I always thought I was the only one”.

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