you plant me with your hands

on your knees in the fertile soil

you plant

what you believe to be an oak seed

to grow into a tall, mighty tree

covered in rough bark

strong roots and branches

that would strive to grow higher

then all the other oaks planted

before it

but

you laid with me in the soil

9 months pass

and you marvel at me

standing firm on the ground

you tirelessly take care of me

watering me

feeding me

but

I am not an oak

and after years of caring for me

you realize the strong oak

is actually an apple tree, in disguise

I am not what you wanted

but you pray

perhaps you’re wrong

maybe I'm an oak

who hasn’t grown correctly

you pray

you pour holy water on me

you drench me

with the words of the lord

you crumble communion over me

hoping as I grow

my fruits would not bear

and instead large leaves of oak would spread

across my body

strong and musky

but your efforts seemed wasted

I grew, almost in defiance

and small green fruits

sprout from my body

you hate these fruits,

disgusted at the thought of

people unlike you

taking my fruit

touching me

with their filthy hands

savoring my taste

and satisfied by my flesh

you tear my branches off

uproot me from my soil

you replant me next to oaks

hoping they’ll change me

you glue oak bark on my skin

hoping it’ll stick

you spray me

with the scent of oak

and you pray

that people won’t notice

or stare at my low hanging fruit

my leaves start to brown

and as I begin to die

you scream at me

“Why won’t you just change?

Why can’t you be the strong, oak I wanted?”

I’m not an oak, father,

I’m a fragrant apple tree

let me be a fruit tree

let me be what I was made to be