Every year standing in the pink papered aisle,
pulling out card after flowery card
scripted sentiments such as You were always there
for me and I am so lucky
to have you for a best friend.
Each one goes back, cardstock dropped
with a smack against plastic casing.
I need a card that says, You left
books around, and now I'm a teacher, or
We can't talk politics, but we love
old houses. On the front, a drawing–
an unmown field, a pasture fence. Instead,
I take one with a tree, blank inside,
where I write, in slanting cursive so much
like yours and Grandma's, Happy Mother's Day.
Meaning, I know now
you did the best you could.