-A quiet meditation on accountability, the poem reminds us that real healing begins not with winning an argument, but with the courage to say “I’m sorry” and mean it.
We learned early
how to defend ourselves.
Whole sentences sharpened for impact.
Facts held like shields.
History arranged to face outward.
No one taught us
how to say I was wrong
without sounding like surrender.
The words were always there,
small, fragile things,
but we left them unused,
like emergency exits
painted over by certainty.
“I’m sorry”
requires a pause.
A loosening of the jaw.
A willingness to stand unarmed
in front of another human being.
That kind of courage
never polled well.
We apologized in theory.
In speeches.
In abstractions large enough
to avoid eye contact.
But never like this,
not one person to another,
not with the risk of rejection,
not with the chance
we would not be forgiven.
My mother knew the difference.
She did not accept explanations.
She waited.
Arms crossed, not in anger,
but expectation.
And eventually,
the truth arrived
without witnesses.
“I did not mean to.”
“I did not know.”
“I thought I was right.”
None of it mattered
until the sentence broke open
and became honest.
A nation can argue forever.
It is good at that.
But an apology,
a real one,
asks for silence afterward.
It says,
I see you now.
Not as a symbol.
Not as a mistake.
As someone who felt the impact
of what I did.
Imagine what would happen
if just once
we stopped winning
long enough
to be accountable.
Not loudly.
Not publicly.
Just this.
One voice, steady, unadorned,
finally practiced enough
to say,
I hurt you.
I am listening now.
And meaning it
even if nothing else is resolved.