She is embroidering me again,
bits of me,
and not the best.
A broken thumb nail, greasy
from engine oil.
A chipped tooth,
a fuzzy nipple,
my wrinkly man-bottom.
Yet, the way she composes
all these scraps of my reality
is a revealing,
a charting of my presence
something she sees as me
when not particularly
looking.
She does not embroider
hummingbirds, butterflies
or flowers,
just these tokens of her
acceptance.
Funky contingent parts,
peripheral yet...
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