(a poem for the women left holding the dustpan)
I remember when my children were small—
eager hands reaching for the broom,
begging to help.
They’d trail behind me,
half-heartedly sweeping,
missing corners,
scattering crumbs.
But they wanted to try.
So I let them.
I’d guide their tiny hands,
show them the rhythm,
and still end up doing it myself.
They’d get tired, bored—
drop the broom mid-sweep
and run off laughing
while I stayed behind
to clean it properly.
That’s what this felt like with you.
You insisted.
“I want this. I can do this.”
So I gave you the broom.
I showed you the way.
I slowed down, waited,
offered my heart like a home.
But the minute the work began,
the minute the dust stirred,
you handed it back—
too heavy, too much,
not fun anymore.
And like a child,
you disappeared into yourself,
while I stood there—
hands full of splinters,
heart full of ache,
sweeping up the pieces
of everything you couldn’t carry.
You wanted the broom.
Until you didn’t.
And now I’m here,
again—
cleaning the mess
you made of me.
Remembering the men who wanted to play, but not clean up after the mess they made.
