The other girls go tap tap tap, but I go clop clop clop
I’ve acquiesced much on clothes that I won’t make that swap
So, mine are matte, not shiny black, and evoke our bygone bogs
I’ll wear leotards and bunny ears, but tap dance in my clogs
Their poplar wood is solid, yet I find it soft and worn
My granny tells me, shoes like these aren’t made so much as born
They’re toes are decked with flowers and carved with simple glyphs
Emblazoned curls and spirals, effervescent will o’ wisps
I know the girls are mocking; parents search the dressing guide
It’s not my fault that “tap shoes” were assumed to be implied
So, each week, at half past three, I clop my way from class
And take my stand in poplar as they lace up as a mass
And when we dance, poised and arranged, we’re matching silhouettes
But there is no grind of metal when I twirl my pirouettes
And as I do, my corn-silk braids, somehow paler than my skin
Shoot out like a windmill as I swirl and whirl and spin
“Fleur!” they say, “You, selfish brat! Now we aren’t a matching crew!
Forget the guide, the judge decreed: we can’t compete because of you!”
Then Ma says, “Fleur, I understand, but don’t forget you have a voice
If you want new shoes, we’ll get them, but don’t let them make your choice”
I stand tall despite it all, though I know we would win states
I know the knowledge too is Ally’s, Sue’s, and Kate’s
And the MVP, our Lindsey P, our queenly prima donna
Glares at me as I clop by, steaming like a sauna
For years I took this, day and night, until she hatched a plot
She told me: “Fleur! We found a way to give our team a shot!
You won’t be in the back, where your shoes seem a mistake
We want you center in the set, your clogs the frosting on our cake!”
This sentence is much kinder, and she called me by my name
Not “Tulip Girl” or “Herring” or (erroneous) “The Dane”
She has lost the need to hate me, she has found our team’s solution
And I can keep my clogs yet feel the glow of friendship and inclusion
I move forward, overwhelmed to be top-dog not runt
Lindsey P scrambles to her cue tape in the front
Then its pull-back, paradiddle, paddle turn and roll
And I don’t think, I just give in, feeling oddly newly whole
I close my eyes and listen to my clopping intertwined
Embraced and more at place than I ever had divined
Capella needs the tenors, violinists need a bass
An artist’s use of color need not be out of place
And yet… there’s something else, I hear a third sound too
A high-pitched pep within each step, incessant though subdued
I pull my blue eyes open wide and glance down at my feet
And see the stage below us is encased with metal sheet
It’s there under McKayla, and I see it as she kicks
And a tiny spark flies off it from her toe tap as she clicks
I pause my dance and slowly turn to view our Lindsey P
And see her sparking brush strokes sending embers back to me
Panic rises in my chest; tap shoes shuffle, slam, and sprint
Their steel-tipped toes strike lightning sparks upon the silver flint
The stage is throwing embers, which erupt and build a blaze
And I find my few escape routes blocked by overdone chasses
Lindsey P cannot be seen, that’s how the flames have climbed
Mckayla blocks me on the left and Sarah is behind
The fire’s spreading faster, I hear Susan on my right
My burning toes inform me that my clogs are now alight
Like witches they resist the flames, but witches still can melt
Their metal shoes embrace the heat where each capped heel was smelt
And their tap tap taps grow louder, and cackle out in sync
They are all that can be heard as I succumb into a shriek
The fire dies and I am freed from Lindsey’s melting pot
The dancers all around me bow, shoes and ambitions hot
The crowd cannot believe it, the crowd calls us a smash
Although I do not see it, all I see are clogs of ash
The party seeks to last for weeks—I knew we would win states
Success was guaranteed for a team that detonates
I keep my center standing, dance no longer in the back
And ball-change, through the flames, in my tap shoes shiny black