Gotcha

GOTCHA

someone signs a piece of paper: the past  
becomes a stranger. the adults have stashed  

yesterday away, marked it forbidden.  
they have baked a cake & lit a single   

candle. a banner, helium balloons.  
pictures taken: smiles all around, though  

some of them dangle askew like crescent  
moons or sickles. the adults brandishing  

silvery phrases: forever home—words  
like minnows too slippery to grasp, words 

to distract from a homesickness that 
will be forgotten in time, you’ll see—time, 

haven’t you heard, heals everything—   

you are given a new name, blue letters 
on a white cake. the candle announces: 

though you are seven, this is the first day  
of your life. no one knows what you bury  

with each bite. the celebration carries  
into night. no one sees you, reciting  

silently your new name.