They call him waste of space
they call him hoarder of air
they call him thick black smoke
but I call him Julian
and every day he shows up at the art class/tutor session I teach at exactly not on time
he is in second grade and I am trying to teach him the ABCs while he is doodling gang violence
Jullian is not illiterate
he can read the concern in my eyes when I ask him why his right one is so dark today
where he got that busted lip I swear to god I will report whoever it was to the police
whether it be playground bully
or beer bottle home keeper
on agreeing to volunteer here
my boss told me “Julian is a bad kid
watch out for him
he steals shoes and is constantly fighting the other boys”
when I tell her I think maybe he learned to lift his fists from his father
she laughs
she laughs as if no father has ever turned a rib cage into a cage match
as if no dad ever painted his son black and blue
and as for the shoes
have you seen his second hand sneakers
the way his toes leak over the edge the manifestation of his glass half full mentality
I don’t know how to tell him to return those that are not his to the lost and found
but I am trying to watch out for him
I am trying to bite my tongue every time I see the supernovas in his eyes at snack time
I am trying to tell him not to trust me
I have never been burned or bruised
have never woken up with the poverty line wrapped around my throat
that will screw you every time you think you might be able to breath
I am trying to tell him not to trust me
That I am not the phoenix he thinks I am
I never had any ashes to rise from
but the last time I tried
he asked me how to spell my name
so I told him letter by letter till he presented me a picture
the first thing I had ever seen him draw without crayon colored blood oozing from a victim
I swear to god it was the biggest lie I ever told but I said it looks just like me