Dear blueberry on the kitchen floor:
it’s not that I don’t see you, it’s that I Can’t.
It’s not that I don’t know I should bend down and pick you up, it’s that I won’t.
You’ve been there since maybe before the baby, and I can’t face that.
You’re not just a blueberry, you’re everything that’s out of sorts that I choose not to see.
It’s not just you, I once left an acorn squash in the fridge for over six months, and this was BEFORE I became a mother.
Just sit there and calcify, grow fur, until some distant Wednesday when I have a moment with nothing to do, and I see you there. I SHOULD PROBABLY PICK THAT BLUEBERRY OFF OF THE FLOOR, my brain thinks completely, a full thought for the first time in years, AND MAYBE DECIDE WHAT I BELIEVE, AND WHERE I STAND, AND CLOSE ALL OF THOSE UNUSED CREDIT CARDS. You’ll be first, blueberry. I promise.