First Name Only

Gerald.

That's the whole bottom of the card—

his handwriting, the pen he uses,

blue, always blue,

on the line where other people write

Dad or Love or something

that required a decision.

I found it under dead batteries

and a menu for a Thai place

that closed in 2018.

I know this handwriting.

I've known it twelve years—

grocery lists, Christmas checks,

the permission slip he signed once

when my mother was traveling.

He wrote his full name on that too.

The card says Happy Birthday at the top.

The company wrote that.

Gerald wrote Gerald.

Twelve years and we never landed on a word.

Not for lack of opportunity.

For lack of—I don't know.

For lack of one of us

deciding to say it first.

I've been holding the card

over a half-packed box

for ten minutes.

There's no right pile for this.