The card rode home inside my book
Like bad news trying not to show.
Just folded paper, red ink marks,
A few short words lined in a row
And still it felt much heavier
Than books or coat or lunch or shoes.
It felt like someone took a ruler
To things a person ought not lose.
Conduct, effort, reading, spelling,
Math I did well, penmanship not.
Talks too much in class written plainly.
That stung more than the grades I got.
I knew I talked. I knew I laughed.
I knew my mind ran off its track.
It still felt strange to see myself
Reduced and handed home like that.
Mother read the whole thing through.
She did not frown the way I feared.
She tapped the paper with one finger
Then said, “A person’s not this weird
little card. Do better where you can.
Quit talking some. Keep reading more.”
That helped me more than any grade
Or all the teacher comments for sure.
I tucked the card back in the drawer
With old school pictures, notes, and junk.
I think some papers try too hard
To tell you what you are in one chunk.