Applying for Citizenship

It’s not home. But wasn’t it
once? Wasn’t it ours before
we were told who we were?
Didn’t we exist before
we were given these names?
There must have been a time before
Ma lost her tongue
to shame. Before illegal
was burned on Papa’s
much-too- gentle hands.
Such innocence.
To suppose a place belongs
to you simply
because you love it.
Simply because it is genesis
to memory.
Such naiveté. Better listen
to the president elect and go
back. To the place of birth.
To the memories that live
only in Spanish. To the dreamless
house and the dirt road. Back
to mother’s depression
And Papa’s soft palms.
How could we ever think
we were deserving of peace?
Aren’t we brown? Aren’t we made
to bear suffering? Heirloom strength
because first heirloom ache.
So why the grief? Because first I had skin
and then I learned what it means.