Dear Mr. Yohannan,
It’s been a while.
Six years have passed since I sat in your class.
The trees in my backyard have shed their leaves six times since I started writing on Poetry Fridays,
Six varying amounts of snow have fallen since my first poem was a part of the Poetry Friday opening powerpoint.
The perennials have bloomed six times since I started writing poetry on my own time, even when it wasn’t Friday.
Six too hot vacations have come too late and gone too quickly since my classmates and I each sent eight or so terrible lines of poetry away to be published in one of those books that was basically a scam but no one cared because we were twelve and shamefully our parents thought, maybe this is the start of a blossoming career, or better yet just a talent, because very few parents actually want their child to become a poet.
You are the start of my poetry story.
The word documents filled with unconfident musings that clutter my computer and the mostly illegible letters that splutter and stutter across strangely yellow legal pads papers and notebooks that crowd my desk drawer are all because of you.
You gave me a chance to be loud,
To prove to the world,
Which six years ago extended not much beyond your classroom,
That I had things to say, that I was authentic.
This thank you is long overdue.
You opened your classroom and gave me the freedom to write.
You gave me my poetry and for that,
I can’t thank you enough.