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To My Mother and Father

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She says she loves me,
but I don’t know.
He says he loves me,
but I don’t remember when we last embraced.
A constant reminder of her successes,
but never my own.
Gone are the gold starred pages, the big fat A pluses,
but forever standing are the silver starred pages, the A minuses.
I’m shown the world—vibrant paintings, luscious fabrics, compassion in strangers,
but never go so far as to leaving our home, or anything a simple Google search can’t do.
She says I’m not good enough, but she understands and promises to settle for what I can do,
but just make sure what I can do involves a good bit of math and science, alright?
I have her lips, her touch, her laugh
but not her eyes.
Her eyes are binoculars, an entrance into a whole new world,
but I have to slide a coin in, and stretch onto my tippy toes.
Her eyes see a path so clear, impossible to miss, impossible to be distracted from,
but it’s fuzzy to me; I fumble with the focusing knob until time’s up.
Can I have another quarter?





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