To my father, whose mother tongue is a village dialect
By Anonymous
When you rebuild yourself
from remnants now old
in a country where you are
not a citizen you are an alien,
how many times do you
mention how lucky you were
to rebuild yourself when
broken in college because of your dialect
in Botswana because of your
language in South Carolina and Georgia,
how many times were you told
the alphabet your mouth formed
was wrong. How does it feel to
rebuild yourself for
the fifth time in this
one life you’ve lived here for
decades and you always say
how lucky you were
to be the one in your family
of six siblings to make it
out of China alive.
How does it feel
to be frayed
into pieces again scared
again that everything
is going to fall apart
scared again that your race
is an arms race
tossed around by
politicians of all colors,
that your race
is a rifle
pointed at your face
if you don’t
“go back to where you came from.”
Make it the sixth.
Because the day
before your birthday
in 1989 bullets rip
past your face and
you run, you ran
for your life a day
away from 25, because
when you woke the next
morning your gift was
a door a square a
sky of bloody bodies.
China China China we are not
China he says
in tariffs and
deportations of Asian immigrants
and we are not China
but somehow after
decades of living here
your birthday
gift this year was
yet another herd
of youth
sent away
in the violence of
silence because the
silencers are elected
here by silent
power, of silent
promises, of silent
purging our yellow bodies from the
silent white Gulf of America,
because silence hides
between beats of your heart
as you run for your life.
How does it feel to
put more time and energy
and money into politics
than your citizen wife
and three American
daughters, combined,
how does it feel
when our
democracy only
bites you back
in executive orders
and cases from
the Supreme Court
of Injustice? Father, how does it
feel to be cracked
by news of youth
like you
denied Green hope and
Green opportunity
after walking life so far for a
Green Statue of Liberty
when only a Statue of
Oppression and Denial of Life
remains, her torch
toppled by greed
of men, and
supporters, toppled
into pieces
like you.
Father, teach me your language
because maybe I will learn to produce nectar,
sweet with stickiness that
I may piece your home of a body
half-whole again. And I’ll ask
in the words of your village,
how does it feel to be falling apart
and half-whole again. And you’ll laugh
and respond; And I know
it is our tongue you will respond in.
The poet is a young writer living in the United States. They are an editor for their school’s literary magazine. Outside of writing, they enjoy spending time with family and friends.
Photo credit: Photo by Bernd 📷 Dittrich on Unsplash.
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