He waited for me everyday
For almost two weeks at the fair,
Where I had given him a shirt
As part of a donation drive.
He found me on his thirteenth day –
He swore he knew I’d come that day,
He’d said the same thing everyday –
And asked me to extend my hand.
I saw no reason not to, though
The men around me said he’s mad.
I did recall the local news
About infected needle jabs.
Before I could withdraw my hand,
He’d pressed something into my palm.
It was a paper folded neat –
Like corner-matching-corner neat.
Inside, it had my father’s hand –
The shaky, feathered alphabet
He wrote towards the very end –
Some poem lines, familiar lines.
“Good, good, you did not wash the shirt.”
Good, good, I could not wash the shirt.