Leftover

I brought the casserole

cold in a plastic container,

the one my mother made

when we needed something

to show up with.

The foil I wrapped it in

was careful. Neat edges.

Like that mattered.

People took small portions.

Polite bites.

No one went back.

I watched the dish

get smaller from disinterest,

not hunger.

The corners stayed full.

The foil on top like a mistake

I'd made by existing.

I could have been angry.

Should have been.

Instead I felt the relief

of it not mattering,

the strange freedom

of the thing you made

not being good enough

to finish.

My mother would have

taken it home.

Reheated it.

Eaten it alone

with the television on.

I threw it away

in the office kitchen,

foil and all,

didn't wait for anyone to see.