Black plastic nametag with white letters,
slightly off-white and not-so-flat from a trip or two through a bachelor's dryer.
I remove it from the bottom of the washer, lightly ******* the engraving,
and ask what's your middle name, this letter T?

From the kitchen you say, my grandmother named me,
with a private grin.
She might have been kinda drunk.
Walking behind me, your caramel-rich low voice soft in my ear,
TsuneoKawehiwehiokekuwahiwionouaioku'uhome.
(saying with careful pronunciation)
Tsu-nay-o-Ka-vay-hee-vay-hee-oh-kay-ku-va-hee-vee­-on-oh-vay-ee-o-ku-u-**-may
and I was just sent

No, she wasn't drunk, she knew exactly what she meant.
Kapunawahine, holding her little mo'opuna kāne,
sensed your father was restless with rock fever,
would be moving away to the mainland with her first grandson soon, so she says to you
*This land of water and rainforest trees of the mountains, Hawaii, will always be your beloved home.