Name

Dad's dog tags are in my hand.

They're heavier than I expected.

Metal, not plastic, not fake—

the kind of weight that means

something was real.

His name is stamped into them.

I can run my thumb over the letters—

first name, last name,

serial number,

blood type.

Everything reduced to inventory.

I've never thought of him this way before.

As property. As equipment.

As something that could be labeled

and catalogued

and issued to a body.

The tags are dull.

Not shiny the way I thought old metal would be.

Just worn, just quiet,

just proof that he was

a thing the military could name

and number

and send somewhere.

I don't know where he wore them.

I don't know if they mattered.

I know they're in my hand now,

and they feel like a question

I'm not supposed to ask.

The indented letters don't tell me anything

except that once, somewhere,

he was considered

property worth tracking.