The cuts on my fingertips bleed out capitalism.
Currency trickles from the lesions.
I nurse my fingers in my mouth—
sipping, licking.

My hands are stained by the dye of the shirt you struggle to fit into.
My fingers are pricked coarse by the needles I use to stitch your favorite jeans.
My family embraces the scraps of your dessert.
The land of milk and honey isn’t as delicious as they had promised: “Come to America, land of chance and opportunity.”

Sweet.

I boarded the plane from a speck in the Caribbean February 18, 1987, intact with a carry-on case compiled with my good shoes, pressed shirts and skirts, and my hopes. I folded that hope so tightly—I made sure it fit. As soon as I unpacked my bag, my hope sprawled out like loose candy from a piñata.