Three Drafts

It was only a birthday card.

The kind you write because not writing

is harder to explain. I tried—three drafts. Hard

to get close to. First: reciting

something formal. The voice of someone

being careful at a door.

Second: overcorrecting. Done

with careful, now too raw.

Third was close enough. I sealed it.

Pressed my left hand flat on the fold.

Felt the paper. And then I held it

up to the light. Saw the gray. Cold

smear along the heel of my palm.

Three drafts' worth of graphite.

All the words I'd tried and had to calm

down from. The ones I thought were right

and weren't. The crossed-out ones.

All of it on my hand.

He'll open one card.

One version. Clean.

The other two are in the trash.

My left hand has all three.