In seventh grade,
I wrote you a poem
of your missing pieces
to the family puzzle.

I wrote it on blank slates
of pale wrists
with red ink.
But not even words
upon my skin made
me exist.

I wanted you to cultivate
flowers in the cracks you created.
For many years
I watered and waited
to see seeds
turn to green.

Maybe you got lost
in the rain trying to find
the street name.
Excuses you made
never did make sense
to me.

Now I have learned your delicate dance,
I have observed
And have learned to spin
the last straws of patients
into gold.