By Sidra Farhang
i wish i had failed the fifth grade
i wish i had forgotten how to write
i wish i had misread the questions
and never learnt to hold my pencil right.
i wish i had added the numbers wrong
i wish i had not learnt to count
i wish i had never learnt my timetables
and never learnt to add the right amount.
i wish i had never learnt the words
i wish i had never read the stories
i wish i had never written my own
and never learnt to share my worries.
i wish i had not done so well
i wish i had not taken my report
i wish i had not given it to my mother
and spared my life from being cut so short.
i wish the world had let me stay
just a little longer
just another day
to learn a few more letters
a few more words
a number or two
that i could share with you.
but the sixth grade now hangs
above me from a thread
a thread that runs thin
and trembles with dread.
so i take off my uniform
and i set down my bag
i put away my books
all without a drag.
the new year will come
and so will sixth grade
where i will be finished
with dreams that just fade.
i will never be a doctor
a lawyer or teacher
i will never be a thinker
or a learner or a reader.
i will pick up the fabrics
the needle and thread
and learn how to sow
where hope can be spread.
i will stitch shut my dreams
fold my thoughts into the hems
hide my stories in the lining
and never speak of them.
maybe i can learn
to write words with strings
to count numbers in thread
so i might remember some things.
maybe, just maybe
with each careful stitch
i can still write my name
in a language they’ll never switch.
maybe the thread
can carry the vowels
of all the words
i am no longer allowed.
so if one day
you find a dress
with patterns that ache
and colours that press
your fingers to your chest
and tears to your eyes
know that was me
still learning to write.
