did you get my last one?

They buried my last email.

Some of you never saw it.

Fifteen people wrote me this morning. Same question.

“Did you send something? Where’s the newsletter?”

I sent it. It never reached you.

Twenty thousand names on this list. A thousand opened it.

Words that should fill a sanctuary filled a closet.

Ten likes. Out of thousands.

That is not you forgetting me.

That is a machine deciding which of my words reach you. And which die in a folder marked spam.

A company you never voted for now sits between a man and the Word on a Tuesday morning.

You already know this hand. You feel it everywhere.

The believing man gets turned down. At work. In the school. On the timeline. Now in his own inbox.

Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel.

The bushel just went digital. The candle is yours. And mine.

So I am doing the only thing that works. I am finding the ones still here.

Reply to this. One line.

Tell me the one email of mine you almost missed this year. The one you would have grieved losing.

I read every reply. And every reply tells the machine you are still breathing.

Then, if you want my words no matter what Gmail decides:

Become a paid subscriber. Paid readers get every drop first, and the men who open and answer are the ones this machine keeps delivering to.