Yellow Roses

Hey, Mom,
I’ve been thinking of you.
I think I want
to give to you this poem,
but I know I won’t,
because I know it isn’t perfect,
and you make me feel like
I have to be perfect
in the best and hardest ways.
Before I even knew the word perfect,
I knew you. I know you.
I know you hate cake,
so I hate cake.
I know you love to make lists,
so I love to make lists.
▢ Stop cutting my own hair
▢ Study for Tuesday’s exam
▢ Finish the poem
I know you love yellow roses,
so I love yellow roses.
I know you love the color red,
so I question why I do not.
And I question if I hate cake.
Do I even like making lists?
▢ Start eating healthier
▢ Buy more ice cream
▢ Finish. The. Poem.
No, I really love lists,
and I truly hate the taste of cake,
and I still don’t know what “perfect” is,
or how to be it.
But I know you
are someone I want to keep 
trying to know.
Because perhaps learning you
means learning me.
And now that these words are on the page,
maybe one day down the road
I’ll figure out
whether or not to plant 
yellow roses in my yard.