Nights, you stagger home from work

in a flurry of papers and cold air,

drop into your armchair and

reach for the remote,

recline,

drown yourself in Chinese operas

for five hours straight.

Nights, you chortle at plump women

on TV

who brandish spoons at drunken husbands,

grandfathers tooting flutes

in ridiculous red robes,

men tearing high notes from their throats

like horses screeching at hay.

You emerge from your bedroom in the basement

when Mom calls you for dinner,

silent, without a word,

you consume her noodles and retreat

into the semi-darkness of your den.

Last Sunday, I heard the saddest thing

crawl out of your mouth.

“Every evening in China

we used to gather on the balcony

and puff cigarettes,

and your mother

used to laugh so hard.”

What a sacrifice

for America. The most I can say,

Dad, is now I understand

the TV blaring from the basement at night

the lingering scent of tea in the kitchen

all those times you made sure

I studied hard

but it hurts

that you love me,

I love it here

and

you and Mom want home.