my grandmother’s hands
are rough around the fingers
stained purple
because of the eggplants she likes to cook,
mama says
but I think it’s because of the flowers
violets she touches
lilacs she picks
jasmines she lays on the dining room table
or used to
before she left home
before she left the sea
before she left drawers full of photo albums behind
to come live with me
and now I am the flower
the lines on her face
soften when she sees
an opportunity to rearrange my ruffled petals
gingerly making everything right
her stained hands on my shoulders
her delicate eyes closed in prayer
so that when I go to sleep I am smiling
and when i close my eyes
I see purple