1.
I came in ’98.
On a plane.
With one bag.
Never left since.

2.
Arrived to the coast.
’83.
Immigrant.
The white “natives” turned their nose at my scent.
Who knew oil and spices weren’t holy in this land?

3.
Last time I saw my father,
He was on a porch on an empty sugar plantation
With hands that knew nothing but the whip of a machete
And the break
Snap of sugar cane.
Last time we spoke,
He called me Americano.
It sounded like sucio.

4.
When I dropped my accent
Like a wedding band on a kitchen counter,
My family named me Big Time Yankee.
My boss finally remembered my name.

5.
You might wonder why I came.
Since ’87 my back has been bent,
My knees threadbare.
But my children walk
Upright.

I once heard someone say
Everything and everyone has 2 deaths.
The first, when it takes its last breath.
The second comes a bit later,
When someone says its name for the last time,
The last time it is spoken of and remembered.
What if we say freedom for the last time?
Or liberty?
Or justice?
Or rights?
What if we stop gathering around the fires,
And speaking through the dust of the ashes?
What happens when our stories stop being told?
When our words stop moving,
We do.
When they burn the flesh of the revolution
And fire is the only light,
Are you breathing a stanza?
Are you telling your story,
Your banana boat
Labor tale?
Whose mob are you lightening torches for with your words?
Or your silence?
Who is speaking?
Who is listening?
Who is dancing their history,
Or singing their grandfather’s song?
The push and pull of his arms,
The callousness taking room on his palms.

Here.
Now.
Keep pushing the wind.
Keeping humming and changing the currents
With your tongue and hands against the tide.
Open your lips for something that matters.
Find the language,
Affected and meaningful.
Give the context of your life,
Of what is it to live
On the margin of a world
That sees nothing but the fruits you bear.
Tell me of the lights that flicker
In the neighborhoods you were locked out of,
The offices you sat in,
Knowing no one wants to hear your corner avenue English
Or smell the rude paint on your boots.
Still, tell.
Write.
Sing the melody of your labor,
Your migration.
Don’t let them forget the bricks you laid.

Cause if they take my voice
Who’s gon push for me?
And if they take your lips
Who’s gon scream for us?

6.
I am no alien
Don’t call me that.

7.
My grandmother packed my bags.
She put a feather in the pocket
And a picture of my mother in my hands.
Told me never forget my wings
And the tight curve of my mother’s lips
With the picket in her hands.

8.
My story is not as romantic.
I just wanted other options.

9.
Refugee.
There was war in the Congo.
I would have been mutilated or dead.
But I don’t really want to talk about it.

10.
I’m here now.
That’s all that matters.
But this really isn’t about immigrants
Or labor.
It’s about oppression.
And the least protected
Always meets the target’s bulls-eye.
But I want this
system
to
topple
like a       spinning       hat.

11.
My children are still waiting for me to come back.
Sometimes I forgot my youngest likes
The burnt bottoms of my banana bread.
I hope they still remember my name.
I do it for them.