DEAR MOTHER

I did sit down this afternoon
to write you the letter that I
promised myself I would write.
I was going to pour out my tears,
my frustration with what you did,
how for years I felt empty,
deserted by someone who should
have shielded me, guided me.
You did none of those things
and I felt I needed to vent
to you about our lack of relationship.
I sat down to write that letter to you
took pen in hand, not computer,
for a letter of this sort, a letter
percolating for decades now
demands the hand of its author.
The paper stared up at me,
the pen refused to touch the paper,
both glared as if saying
“you don't write that to the person
who gave you life and then
give you a better chance at life
by putting you up for adoption.”