Mami One Day I Will Make You Proud

Three words that clipped my wings.

So I danced merengue with my ancestors.

El chisme twirled me, while my heels hurt like hell.

The sweat from twists and turns waiting to be wrung out of my curls.

My dress was made by calloused hands that traded one too many jobs.

I swallow coconut pulp with the misery my art creates.

I could’ve died, Mami will never let me forget. 

Mami didn’t face death for me to be a poet.

To birth my own characters through words. 

Ella pregunta insiste por qué no vas a la escuela para ser doctora,

pero mami 

A poet is a surgeon, their words, the surgical instruments.

Ella  pregunta insiste por qué no vas a la escuela para ser abogada,

pero mami 

There is poetic justice the breaking down barriers.

Words that apply pressure on the blood wounds.

Palabras that demand a courtroom.

Mami the world around you began with language, 

with writing.

My checks and balances,

son arroz con gandules y carne asada

es mi comida pobre,

but rich in flavor. 

I ate with my ancestors.

The burnt rice at the bottom of the pan became our favorite part of the meal.

Quien lo bota       es wasteful.

Because you do not waste the potential,

of what has hardened in spirit. 

 I could’ve died,

Three words I will not let clip my wings.

So I danced merengue with my ancestors 

and wrote a poem about it afterwards.