Before I begin, an instruction:

I am going to offer you things.

You cannot accept them.

Whatever I offer, you say no.

No thanks. No thank you. Fuck off.

In whatever language you carry.

Are we clear.

Good.

 

I’d like to offer you a biscuit.

I’d like to offer you a seat.

I’d like to offer you an umbrella.

It might rain on the way home,

it might not,

but I’d like you to have it.

I’d like to offer you a lift.

I’d like to offer you a podcast recommendation

that will genuinely change how you think about birds.

 

I’d like to offer you my mother’s phone number.

She’s lonely on Tuesdays.

She makes very good soup.

Just take it.

You don’t have to call.

Just have it.

I’d like to offer you the spare key

to somewhere I used to live.

The lock might have changed.

But if it hasn’t,

there’s a good light in the kitchen

in the mornings.

I’d like to offer you the name

I had before I knew what names were for.

 

I’d like to offer you every apology

I rehearsed in the shower

and then decided against.

I’d like to offer you the particular silence

that happens at 3am

when you’ve been sitting with something

you can’t put down

and can’t carry.

I’d like to offer you a different version of this year.

One where things went

differently.

You know the one.

I’d like to offer you what I found

at the bottom of it.

I’d like to offer you that.

 

I’d like to offer you

everything I was given

before I knew how to hold it.

I’d like to offer you

my hands.

I’d like to offer you

the particular quality of light

on the morning I understood

I was not going to be saved

and was still, somehow, hungry for breakfast.

I’d like to offer you that hunger.

I’d like to offer you this poem.

I’d like to offer you,

(silence)