You stared in my eyes like Roald Dahl said you ought to
to make sure I wasn’t a witch.
You believed in the fairy tales that they all taught you.
You don’t seem to care that the other kids don’t talk to you.

You like to read a lot, don’t you?
You tune out the world and dive into a book.
You asked to sit alone because you scare the other kids.
You talk to yourself, and you like to lie on the floor.

The substitute had told the story of his brother
who was born with only one eye.
His brother got teased, and he felt like an outcast.
His bullies were very mean.

When the substitute asked the class
what to do about bullies,
all the kids said the same old thing.
“Stand up to the bullies! Tell an adult!”

But you, in the corner,
for the first time in a long time,
were compelled to raise your hand
and give a creative answer.

“Your brother could get himself a glass eye
If he wasn’t missing an eye, he could fit in.”
The sub said, “Good answer,” and I smiled.
The sub and I locked eyes, and then I looked at you.

I wonder if you feel like you’re missing an eye, Bobby.
I assure you, you are the best in the class,
the one I would save if we were all drowning.
You are more than anyone gives you credit for.