Dear Drone,

I shouldn’t be writing this.
Everyone in the hive says you’re useless — that you just lounge around, eat honey, and wait for the queen to notice you.

But still…
There’s something about the way your wings catch the morning light.
The way you hover like you own the air.
The way you don’t work, but act like the whole colony revolves around you.
It’s infuriating. It’s reckless.
It’s… oddly charming.

You Had Me at “Buzz”

While I was collecting nectar from 147 sunflowers yesterday, you were flopped on your back fanning yourself with your own wings. You didn’t even notice me. Typical.

I pretended not to care. But I did.
I thought, maybe if I just show him my pollen baskets…
But no — you were too busy asking if the queen was single yet.

You’re Literally Built for One Thing

Everyone says drones are born with one mission — to fly high, mate with the queen, and die in the process.

That’s not a metaphor. You explode. Mid-air. Pop. Gone.

It’s dramatic.
It’s tragic.
It’s so you.

Meanwhile, I Run This Hive

While you’re out doing… whatever it is you do…
I’m:
– Feeding larvae
– Building wax comb
– Guarding the entrance
– Cleaning, heating, cooling, and organizing the entire operation

I’m not just a worker. I’m a nurse, builder, soldier, HVAC technician, and undertaker all in one.
And still, I watched you fly by like pollen on the wind and thought, what if…

But Love with You? It’s a Bomb Waiting to Happen

Even if you do get chosen for that nuptial flight, I know how it ends.
You give it your all — quite literally. And the queen? She won’t remember your name. Just your genetic contribution.

And I’ll be back in the hive, pretending not to notice the empty cell where your lazy wings once were.

Final Buzz

So no, Drone. We were never meant to be.

You’re a summer fling — a warm breeze through the hive — a flirtation with six legs and no stinger.

But I’ll always remember you.

When I see a perfect drone-shaped shadow pass over the garden…
When the queen lays eggs with a dreamy look on her face…
When I hear the faintest bzzzzzzzz-pop in the distance.

Yours (but not really),
Maribelle the Worker Bee
Pollen collector. Wax sculptor. Survivor of unrequited wing-love.