She pressed it into my hand in the break room

She pressed it into my hand in the break room,

said I was kind. I was just there,

standing in the doorway, and the plastic

was cool from the drawer. I couldn't prepare

an answer because there was nothing

to answer to. Fifty dollars. I tried

to remember the moment I'd earned it—

the coffee made, the time I hadn't lied

or complained, the way I was just

present, which is all I ever am,

just breathing near other people.

Somehow that became kindness. The scam

is that I'll keep this card and wait

for something to change, to justify

the weight of what she saw, and I'll hesitate

to spend it because spending means I

accept that I'm more than I know.

Or maybe the scam is that I don't.