I thought my family found me,
the other day.
Nothing too dramatic,
just another friend request.
I have a thousand friends,
none who know me.
But this request.
This request had my bizarre surname:
“Son of the Butler” in old English.
“Son of a Bitch” it might as well mean.
Why after nine years,
a computer literate one looked me up?
Second cousin had an adult son die,
but they still have that other one.
No need for their dead cousin’s kid.
I used to think their anger at my dead mom
could only last so long.
I thought one Sunday
sitting in a righteous pew,
their pure minds would hit on me.
The request was a fake profile.
I deleted it almost in relief.
No need to suppress my politics,
or pretend to be normal.
Appalachian cousins don’t forget.
But maybe someday.