Draft

The pencil had no eraser—just the flat

metallic collar, rubber gone. I sat

with the blank card. Wrote I'm sorry

for your loss. It looked perfunctory

even to me, so I crossed it out.

Tried again—your mother—but the doubt

crept in. I'd met her once. A work party.

Paper plates. My condolence was partly

a guess. Drew a line through that.

Tried: I don't know what to say. It sat

there looking honest, which was worse.

Crossed it out. The card was a little hearse

by then—five drafts laid out in it,

each one canceled but legible, lit

up by the graphite underneath. The pencil kept

adding evidence. I could have wept—

I didn't. I laughed. The thing looked manic.

Threw it out. Drove to CVS in a panic

that felt stupid even as it lasted.

Bought a Hallmark. Gold. Embossed. Contrasted

with the mess I'd made, it looked like grace.

With Sympathy. I signed in the right place,

gave it to her Monday. She said thanks.

The real card's in the trash, its ranks

of crossed-out lines still showing through the stock.

Every failed draft, pressed in and locked

there. Still legible. Still saying the thing

I actually meant, under everything.