when i 
write my name 
with my left hand, 
i instantly  
find him there: 

6-year-old me, 

looking 
back through 
a paper mirror 
of sloppy lines, 
& quirky, 
anxious-looking 
letters. 

there’s a  
6-year-old 
person  
in our house, 

& she 
has already 
learned 
how to  
shape her name  
perfectly, 

how to hold  
a pencil steady, 

how to  
notice herself 
becoming herself. 

& when i watch her, 
i’m reminded 
of the kid 
inside of me, 

who was too nice 
to push  
people’s buttons, 

so he pushed 
the button 
of a thousand pens 
instead. 

whose handwriting 
was the center 
that would become 
his solace 
in adulthood. 

who never 
wrote  
love letters  
to himself 
until he 
became 
a father. 

maybe i 
should write 
this whole poem  
with my 
left hand, 
just to tell myself: 

you made it.