I had an eight percent chance of blue eyes. Maybe? Something around that number, if I am to believe the Punnett squares I scrawled on dinner napkins or the Polaroid photograph of my grandfather my mother keeps in a shoe box in her closet. There are veins of oxidation splitting the skin of his neck, wobbly lines like those of a Polygraph, poorly designed grooves I read like little apologies. Sorry. Coming through. Sorry, we didn’t quite mean to cut through like this. Sorry. Did we say that already? So sorry.