A three-leaf clover.

That’s all I’ll ever be.

The four-leaf clovers; they’re the real stars, considered “lucky.” 

They’re a symbol.

What am I?

A lame plant that doesn’t even matter? 

People walk over me as if I’m just another blade of grass. 

Occasionally, I will see a child or two, looking for four leaf clovers. Of course they are… They pick through our three-leaved crowds. Sometimes, they mistake us for a four leaf clover. They pick us up with excitement in their eyes. 

Somehow, even though I know the truth, I still can't help but wish that maybe they appreciate my three leaves, and that perhaps they want to take me home and put me on display. 

As soon as they notice my mediocrity, I see the light in their eyes die as they drop me to the ground, realising that I’m just another three-leaf clover.

Now that I’ve been pulled from my roots, I'm left to die on the ground, slowly turning shrivelled and crumbly, just like my family and friends that came before me. 

Me. and all the other three-leaved clovers that have been mistaken for something more.