That's Supposed to Be Me

I stopped on the seventh form. Pen down.

The signature looked like weather—just a loop

with nothing of my name in it. My noun

was printed just below. I couldn't recoup

the letters from the mark. I'd signed six forms

without noticing. The nurse was at the door.

My father somewhere past the double doors,

being prepped. I picked the pen up. More

forms. His middle name, which I always pause

on for a moment. His date of birth.

The stack. My hand doing what it does—

the same loop, the same illegible worth

of proof.

His name. My mark above it.

His hand in mine in the parking lot, 1993.