The Ink Brush
1On Saturday, Grandpa set out a brush,
a dish of black ink, and paper so thin.
"Start with the first letter of your name," he said.
I dipped the brush and dove right in.
2My K came out a soggy blob,
a puddle where a line should be.
The ink soaked through the paper fast,
and one gray drop splashed on my knee.
3Grandpa laughed and held my hand.
"Wipe your brush on the side of the dish.
Press down slow, then lift up light."
The brush went whisper, swoop and swish.
4I filled one page, and then one more,
with K after K after K.
Some were shaky, some were thick,
but each looked better along the way.
5By lunch I painted all of KAI,
three letters standing tall and neat.
Grandpa taped it to the kitchen wall
and clapped so hard he stamped his feet.
6He also taped my soggy blob
right underneath my name.
Now when I see them side by side,
I know that practice makes a change.