The Self-aware Shrub

I couldn’t say I’m quite American
but Soy Cubana burps out of me like pre-programmed
robotics.
Tía bent my hands around
empanada dough
abuela, my fingers around the spoon
to stir frijoles
and mami, my neck over
the pan of picadillo.
Like a garden tree shaped by wires,
I was not allowed to be more
than their plan for me.
The product of brave immigrants.
The vessel for grandchildren of brave immigrants.
I’m grateful for the planting,
but who is I at all?

How many times will you say that you
left it all behind
until I’m convinced you didn’t?

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s