Let’s go to San Juan—
not the city with the buses and busy streets,
but Old San Juan where my ancestors died
with their backs against the border wall
and their blood spilling into the sea.

Let’s visit the sea-side Cemetery
where none of them could be buried
because their blood was too blue
and the grass too green to hold their flesh
but not too green to take their lives.

Let’s roam Santa María—
it’s just a quick walk downhill
from El Morro, the heritage site
built by Spanish conquerors
and overrun by American soldiers.

Let’s walk
because what else is there to do when
all the trees and roads were torn down
in attempt to bring Columbus back
(or at least his gringo beneficiaries)?

Let’s leave some flowers
because I can’t stand the look of
lonely graves marked with names
that sound so much like mine—
that fought so many good fights.

Let’s count
how many white men try to teach us
of the time when the island was ours—
before soldiers climbed the wall we stare at
and El Morro gave way to Fort Brooke.

Let’s count
how many times the waves break,
cresting just as they hit the white wall,
and how many times my breath catches
as I worry they’ll wash it all away.

Let’s talk about my grandfather—
about how much he would love to be here
in the Caribbean sun and how this
wouldn’t just be a vacation for him but
a homecoming in more ways than one.

Let’s talk about the tourists
and how, even up in the castillo’s tower,
they still overlook little Santa María
with all its revolutionaries and poets
and composers and engineers.

Let’s sit on the grass,
resting between a lawyer and a journalist
they’ve never heard of and never will
because Spanish names are too hard
and red stories too boring in real life.

Let’s sit on the grass,
pulling every blade out one by one
until I have one for every grave we see
and one for the grandfather who’s dead to me
so I can throw them all into the sea.

Let’s sit on the grass
until the sun sets and all the people leave,
leaving El Morro and Santa María to us
like it was when we were too young to
know the difference between them and us.

Let’s stay in this place
named after a Spanish king and an Italian saint
until it starts to feel like ours again—
until we can feel it in our veins and
call it home for (maybe) the first time.