They asked me,
“What would you like to eat today?
What should we serve on your plate?”
And I said,
“A plate of love…
and a tall glass of kindness, please.”
They stared at me
confused,
amused,
like I had spoken a language
they had forgotten existed.
“Sorry, sir…
we don’t serve that kind of dish here.”
So I asked,
“Then what do you serve?”
They handed me a menu
thick pages
full of flavours,
full of noise,
full of everything the world uses
to fill an empty stomach
but never an empty heart.
They said,
“Choose anything you want.”
I closed it softly.
“It’s alright,” I said,
“just a glass of water.”
And suddenly
my request felt heavier
than the whole menu.
Someone in the corner frowned
maybe the manager,
maybe the owner
like simplicity
was suspicious,
like thirst
was a crime.
One of them brought the water
and set it down
with a look that said,
“People like you
waste our time.”
I held the glass
clear, quiet, honest.
And I drank it slowly,
because even water
can feel like a blessing
in a room
where kindness is rare
and love is nowhere
to be found.
I thanked them
for the kindness
they didn’t realise
they had given.
But I couldn’t thank them
for the love
because love…
love was never on the menu.
NEPHART.COM 