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
let me be
