Yes, Chelsea,
I will take the school photograph
That you give me for my birthday, as long
as you promise
Not to weep in forty years when you open
A cardboard box with crispy strips
Of masking tape on its corners, lift out
A wrinkled file from which a silverfish scoots
As you open it to find this photo,
Along with the story you wrote
About the Hawaiian princess; hundreds of drawings
Of little mermaids, your Mom, and
landscapes;
Forty-five Father’s Day cards.
I will not have shown these to you in decades
Any more than I would show you any flowers
You’ve given to me after they have withered,
Their aroma escaped with your childhood.
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