Ready—or Not

Adverbs. One for the money. Two for the show. Three to get ready. And four to—

I think about writing a letter to Daddy in prison about what my mother is doing. More specifically, I think about writing a letter to my daddy in prison about who my mother is doing.

Instead I decide to write a letter to my grandmother. My mother’s mother.

Dear Grandma,

I’m thinking about the day we met. It was sort of the day you and my mother met. You brought Mom the pictures of you two before you left. I always want to expand the picture. See all the things you cropped out, wanted Yasmin to forget. A daughter can never forget losing her mother. There’s always a empty seat at the table.

As mad as I get at my mom, I get madder at you. Every time Yasmin does stupit shit, I think of the person who didn’t do shit for her. YOU.

And why’d you finally show up? Because you needed someone to take care of you. You needed someone to love you. Yasmin wouldn’t do it, and I know she still don’t forgive herself. I blame you for that too. After she threw you out she spent hours, days, looking for you on the Internet. She still does sometimes. What sucks more than anything is she ain’t never gonna find what she’s looking for, but she can’t ever stop searching for it.

I write this letter on Yasmin’s behalf. To say everything even she could never admit. That you’re a criminal. A thief steals shit but you stole the person Yasmin could’ve been.

Fuck you on behalf of my mother. You didn’t even try. At least Yasmin gets credit for that.

I archive this letter in my dictionary. Next I write the letter to my dad. Put it in one of those envelopes the CPS worker left for us. Crumple it up. Uncrumple it. Keep it in my pocket.