Dear Daniel Davis or How I Came to Know Jesus Christ as My Personal Lord and Savior

. . . across somewhere around a dozen pages, in a tightly scripted hand whose meticulousness and rising elegant loops are surprising to him, Daniel reads:

I hope this finds the light of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, shining in your life and that he extends to you the grace of his love in everything you do. Let’s clear up one thing right from the start, because I don’t know what they may have told you. (Many lies I imagine.) But I have not turned my back on Him, nor has He ever turned away from me. That’s all I need to say about that.

Across the room from me is a “mirror” which is not a mirror and on the other side of that mirror, Nurse Jeannie is sitting with her little pad watching Keisha complete her “assignment.” I don’t know what the bitch thinks—like maybe I’m going to stab this ink pen into my wrist and bleed to death before she can get in here with the Bactine and the Bandaids. Actually I do know one thing Nurse Jeannie thinks— which is that when I look over in her direction that I’m looking in a mirror. That’s how simple she is. Sometimes I make my crazy faces for her. I look all around and circle my eyes and around in their sockets, and sometimes I let my tongue hang out of the corner of my mouth. Nurse Jeannie writes it all down. Just look at poor Keisha. She types up her little notes on her fancy computer and makes sure the corners are straight before she staples them in the corner. Then she drops them into the folder that Dr. Marianne keeps on her desk with my name on it. Dr. Marianne is too busy to sit on the other side of the mirror watching Keisha making faces and writing a letter to her son. Writing the letter is Dr. Marianne’s idea, so you’d think she’d pay attention, but no, she’s got some other bitches she’s got to sit and have her pleasant little chats with. And you’ll notice that while Dr. Marianne is happy to provide the latest computers and printers and software for Nurse Jeannie, Keisha has to write it out longhand, just like the old days back at U-City High. Same shit, different day. What do you need a computer for if you’re rotting in jail for rest of your life, right?

Now, Keisha: Try to remember that part of our plan is working on our sarcasm problem.

This is how these bitches talk to you in here. Like they are the mommies and we are their precious baby girls. You are so pretty when you smile. And: You are doing such a super job in the dish room. As if shoving a load of trays into one end of the dishwasher and stacking them out of the other end were a major accomplishment in life. They all have these sweet little baby doll voices and these fake-ass smiles to go with them.

Thank you, Nurse Judy. Kiss my black ass, Nurse Kay.

In our part of this place, that’s what we call them: Nurse Judy and Nurse Jeannie and Dr. Marianne. Because “We want you girls to feel comfortable here.”

Please, bitch. I sleep on a hard cot in a room the size of a refrigerator. I pee into a shiny metal bowl. You talk to somebody else about comfortable.

When they read this, they’ll say, “Oh, Keisha. You know we’ve talked about putting our best face out for the world. And, well, language like that . . . ”

Dr. Marianne will say that (won’t you, bitch), and when she finishes saying it she’ll tilt her head all to the side because she is so damn disappointed in Keisha.

It’s all about the therapy, you know. Loading up those trays all greasy and nasty with other people’s chewed over meals, and scalding...