Smooth, soft hands,
Cool upon my feverish brow,
The potholders to steaming chicken noodle soup.
As quick to pat on the back
As to slap out the evil nature of wrongdoings.
Twin blades that slice the air,
Emphatically dicing and poking servings, meaty lessons,
Two lighthouses to guide me, as much herself
In this foreign land of opportunity.

They tell me of their uprooting and replanting in a strange society,
Where people write in the wrong direction.
They tell me of new methods of eating, strange utensils,
They tell me of displacement, their fears, their hopes, their dreams.
Last of all, they tell of me, a chubby child let go by tender arms,
Pushed gently from a black dress, my face contorted and stained with tears
Framed by a classroom door as I watch them fade away.
This they tell to me.