"You're a really good writer,"
my poetry professor said
to me on my last day of college.
I squirmed, flushed the pink if tulips,
thanked him, examining
the scar on my knee.
He said, "No I mean it,
you're really good."
My lips seemed sewn together.
I remember his words on days
I am good at nothing else.
And I love that memory.
It's much more than I ever got
out of the empty box
of my father.
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