the goldfish you named Mel

I wish they understood
that the goldfish you named Mel
couldn’t make you feel better.
I imagine they would know
that you needed more validation
less conversations with Mel
about the stories from
your collection of VHS cassettes–
Mel never said anything back,
but I could swear she saw all of them.
You couldn’t understand
God’s words of wisdom
and their symbolism
feed from a pedestal,
but you could understand
a smile and a hug
from a healing friend
even more so at the age of 5
than you do now–
I could swear it has the same effect.
But instead they brought home
the goldfish you named Mel
inside a plastic bag
your young grip is proud
as you bring it to eye level:
little fish, from now on
you’ll be judge by your ability
to climb a tree
wrapped in invalidation
your fins
my feelings.