Inspired by a note Emerson wrote in Grade 1.
My dad threw
pieces of chalk at me
because I drew on the car.
That’s what I knew how to write.
Not why it happened.
Not how it made me feel.
Just the facts,
the way children often tell them.
Grade one
doesn’t have enough words
for fear.
It doesn’t teach
how to spell confusion,
or why someone you love
can become someone you’re afraid of.
So I wrote
exactly what happened.
My dad.
Pieces of chalk.
The car.
A few simple words
on wide-ruled paper,
never knowing
they’d one day be read
with grown-up eyes.
The handwriting is uneven.
The spelling isn’t perfect.
But the truth
doesn’t need perfect grammar.
Sometimes
the strongest testimony
isn’t spoken
in a courtroom.
Sometimes
it’s written
by a six-year-old
who thought
he was only telling
his teacher
about his day.
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