I am Caitlin. C-A-I-T-L-I-N.
It’s the traditional Irish spelling.
No one can spell my name.
They throw in a K, a Y, and E’s galore.
And it’s always the same and they never are sure and my name is not there.
I have mountains of birthday cards addressed to a stranger.
Someone that’s me but not quite.
Almost but not quite, so close, but not me.
There’s the C and the A and then there’s that E.
Then there’s that E. That’s for her and not me.
There once was a card with an E and a K.
Wishing me wishes on my special day.
Along with the card came a gift. A blanket with black dogs.
“Because I know how much you love your dog,” it read.
“What dog?” I said. I’m allergic.
My grandmother bought me a soccer book.
Due to how much I love to play.
But the day I touch a soccer ball is the day the London Bridge will fall,
And pigs will fly and I’ll still ask why,
Can’t anyone spell my name?
I look at theses misprints, soon I realize
my name has become something personalized
C-A-I-T-L-I-N is Catalina is Caity D
And this isn’t my name yet it’s very much me
So I let the E’s swim in my sea of the C’s
I see people call to this person care
Listening to her, wanting her there
Wanting the person these names seem to share
They mimic my misprints; add letters galore
They look past my crust, they see to my core
And though I have cards addressed, not to me
They’re written to people I’m getting to be.
Even if “Katelyn” has K, Y and E.
I am Katelyn and Caitlin is she.