What I'm Bringing

My coworker invited me

to a potluck at her house,

and I said yes,

and I meant it,

and I immediately regretted it.

Now I'm standing in the grocery store

trying to figure out what to contribute,

trying to decide what food

says: I am part of this,

I belong here,

I want to be one of you.

But the truth is,

whatever I bring

will be a kind of lie.

I could bring something

store-bought,

something that requires no effort,

and that would say:

I don't care enough to try.

I could bring something homemade,

something that says:

I spent time on you,

I believe in you,

I want to be part of this,

and that would be a lie too,

because I don't,

and I don't,

and I'm only going

because I don't know how to say no.

So I pick up a bag of chips

and a tub of salsa,

and I imagine the table

full of mismatched dishes,

everyone reaching for food

that isn't theirs,

the forced intimacy

of pretending

that sharing a meal

means you want to share

anything else.

I will go.

I will smile.

I will eat what someone made,

and I will pretend

it matters.