The Card

The card came with my name in it,

third line down in their handwriting.

The thank-you is printed—safe, generic.

The names are added after, a second thought.

I was there. I stood in that room

and said nothing.

Someone asked if I wanted to speak.

I had it ready. The thing about

Tuesday mornings, how his voice

became the rhythm of my week,

how I was the one who kept it alive.

I said no.

Now the card is on my dresser.

I'm in the margin. Named

but not heard. I showed up

but I wasn't there.

The thing I didn't say

is still in my mouth,

still practicing its speech

to an empty room,

to an audience that left

the building hours ago.