Happy Mother’s Day

Imagine a place where:
“Thank you”
isn’t flung at you snidely
at worst,
or hurled with sarcasm
at best.

Imagine a plane of existence
where gratitude
doesn’t soar past you,
doesn’t leave you waiting
at the gatehouse
for a missed flight of feeling
appreciated,
instead of terminally misused.

Imagine,
if you were more than
an emergency contact number,
more than
a sum of digits called upon
to subtract conflicts,
add solutions,
multiply your
contributions of love
without becoming internally divided.

Imagine,
if the hotline
to your acknowledgement
never went cold.
Imagine,
if embraces of gratefulness
enveloped you more often
than post favorite meals cooked,
annual Christmas presents bought.

Imagine a home
where thankfulness is matched
with the same expectations
that you will always be mother,
mama,
Mom.

Imagine a slice of reality
where you didn’t have to imagine
this poem to be true.
So let me end by saying this:
I’m sorry,
for all the times
I didn’t permit “thank you,”
to escape my lips
more often than it has.

I’m sorry,
for permitting this
plane of existence
to feel more like
an act of terror
towards your twin towers
of love and patience towards me.

I’m sorry,
that it feels like
you’re only on speed-dial
when my mind is too slow
to solve my own problems,
that you’re on call just
to do the listening
instead of being heard.

I’m sorry,
if my hugs seem seasonal
at best,
or synced to leap years
at worst.
I’m sorry.

But I am thankful,
for all the love
you still cultivate in me,
for not giving up on this garden
no matter how many weeds
of ingratitude I’ve let flourish.

I just want you to know,
that I see you
and always have.
I love you
and always will.

Thank you,
for being a mother,
a psychologist
to my mind,
a nurse
to my heart,
an optimist
to my ambitions,
a realist
to my dreams.
Thank you,
for being mother,
mama,
Mom,
to me.

I can only imagine
how hard it must be.

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