Reading About ChatGPT, I Miss My Brother

Candice Kelsey

AI experts agree that ChatGPT is incredibly limited
but good enough to create misleading impressions of
greatness. I text my brother seeing he called, our first

contact since burying our dad five months ago, roboting
together through St. Patrick’s Mass, “Taps,” Steak Loft
small talk. Grief. Did I miss a call from you? He responds,

Sorry I butt dissed you. But we need to catch up it’s been
too long. He corrects himself—*dialed—butt dialed.
A brother’s cold dismissal, cursory as pseudocode. An

OpenAI variant, ChatGPT, can carry a conversation, answer
questions, challenge assumptions, even admit mistakes. My
brother follows up, Are you around this weekend for a FT?

The CEO of an AI startup explains there is so much work to
be done on robustness, truthfulness. Many critics find the
technology little more than a parlor trick. Sunday is open,

I reply—Hope all is good. When the doctor ordered palliative
sedation, my brother flew out that day. I could not. I am
fading so fast, our father’s final words.
Candice Kelsey [she/her] is a poet, educator, and activist in Georgia. She serves as a creative writing mentor with PEN America’s Prison Writing Program; her work appears in West Trestle, Heimat Review, Poet Lore, and Worcester Review among other journals. Recently, Candice was a finalist in Iowa Review’s Poetry Contest and nominated for a Best Microfiction 2023. She is the author of Still I am Pushing (FLP ’20), A Poet (ABP ’22), a forthcoming full-length collection with Pine Row Press and chapbook with Drunk Monkeys’ Cherry Dress. Find her @candice-kelsey-7 @candicekelsey1 and

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