Call it a mistake
Or a well crafted error
Whatever it is
They left the child behind.
Their hands sculpted him
Drawing him on walls and fences
Painting his tiny frame with yellow
Telling neighbours he was no good.
He is their egg
The jam between their bread
The feather in their hats
Strong and gentle in his ways.
His fingers touched the ball, assured
That one day he’ll be a Jordan
He’ll put a ring in his ear
And get a name for his folks.
But in his absence
They wiped the paintings off the door
They erased his childhood
And named it an oversight.
arrowbird 