The envelope was thin

The envelope was thin,

too thin,

the paper inside crisp,

crackling like a dry leaf.

And there it was,

her name, my name,

and then the grid.

Small, neat boxes,

numbers, letters,

a whole year boiled down

to terse, clipped remarks.

'Effort in Math: C.'

The C, a small hook,

caught something in my throat.

Under the teacher’s signature,

a thin red line,

drawn with purpose,

a finality.

It wasn't a bad grade, not really,

but the word 'effort'

sliced like cold air.

I remembered my own father,

his thumb running over

the 'satisfactory'

for 'conduct'.

The weight of it,

that cold, crisp paper,

how it flattened the world.

And now, this girl,

my girl,

her small shoulder slumped

before she even knew.

The weight already settling.

The quiet, paper verdict.