A, I Think

The form asked and I didn't know.

A, I guessed, my handwriting uncertain

in the box where it wanted to know

what I was made of.

Thirty-six years old.

No one ever told me.

No card in my wallet.

No mother saying, "Remember,

you're type A."

Nothing. Just a blank space

I've apparently been filling in wrong

my whole life.

I know my grandmother's blood type.

I know my ex's coffee order.

I know the sound of my own voice

telling the story wrong.

But my own blood?

The thing that keeps me alive?

The thing moving through me

right now, right here,

as I'm sitting in this chair

in this doctor's office?

I guessed.

The nurse didn't correct me.

She just wrote it down.

Now I'm A.

Or maybe I'm not.

Maybe I've been labeled wrong

my whole life and no one thought

to check.

The important things are quiet.

They move through you.

They keep you alive

and you never think to ask

what they're called.