In the nubby blue upholstered
post office chairs, I hold
the envelope full of everything
I think we need.

Two women in bright print dresses,
hair wrapped in colorful cloth,
finish their appointment,
gather their things,
& one hoists a large, heavy box
onto her head, sees our awe,
smiles, says, African women… &
glides out to the parking lot
balancing it with no hands,
in her kitten heels.

The passport clerk calls us next.
Officious words come at us like buckshot,
terms that seem respectful at first
but truthfully are intended to scold. Me.
I do not have what we need.

I retreat into my brain stem
catching phrases from a distance:
unacceptable proof… certified copies…
I have been doing this 17 years…
but you can explain it to the state department, Ma’am.
Could someone with a valid passport could come
sign an affidavit to vouch for your citizenship
since your evidence is unsatisfactory?

I go blank. I must have said something 
to make her mad? I search my daughter’s 
embarrassed eyes.

Do you have a trip planned?

No, I just want to make sure I can vote
in the next election since my birth name
and current name don’t match,
I’m from everywhere,
my daughter’s an adult now…

Her eyes say there is
nothing for you here today.

We get in the car, frustrated, deflated,
saying we can try again in a few months,
both of us knowing I can miss a detail
or forget a step in a process at times,
imagining how it would feel
if our safety depended on
having the right things
in the envelope, & we weren’t fluent.