Uncorrectable marks

The pencil in my hand

sharp and stubborn—

no eraser to soften its edges.

My kid's sentence bleeds out

on crumpled paper,

erased not once, but again,

hoping for a clean line.

But this stick of graphite

reminds me:

not every mistake gets a second chance.

I trace the worn wood,

smooth from years of use,

thinking how some things

are meant to stay—

uncorrected, raw.