Delivered
You wrote a letter after my birth.
I read the letter after your death.
Eight pages of onionskin,
every sentence fat with hope
smelling of joy & cedar.
Not that you wrote it to me.
Not that you lived its promise.
By the time your parents
slit the blue envelope
& unfolded its contents,
birthing had altered your mind.
Schizophrenia, manic-depression—
words doctors skimmed
from the DSM-I that led to meds,
hospitalizations, electroshock.
Nothing but the best
guesses of 1960s psychiatry.
Decades later, words bead like
water on wax & their strands
helix mother & daughter,
honor our bond. Your letter
cradles our truths.
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