Papa, I do not know your sacrifices
I only know the pot belly from liquor,
the balding head from age
The stern voice that tells me to keep the flashlight still,
while your hands are kept occupied
by tools I never learned the names of
The same heavy hands that left
permanent fingerprints on my cheek
Burning my face with shame,
branded with scorch marks immemorial
Papa, I hate to admit it
but I’ve never looked at you the same way since
When our eyes do meet,
I can’t help but grieve
how yours have grown tired
and your hands have started to get shaky
No longer do I cower when you raise it,
for I know, it is slow and old from years of hard work
In making sure our mouths are fed
and our bodies are clothed
Whereas paper-white scars and rugged skin
play hide-and-seek with my eyes
from the tatters of your button-down shirt
And the unpatched seams of ripped jeans
Yet, there is sadness
when you avert your gaze
and beckon mama to sit
at the dining table
where some chairs are empty,
and most conversations are unkind
Mama, I do not know your melancholy
I am only familiar with your calloused hands from laundry,
the crow’s feet and smile lines etching your face
The humming to Que Sera Sera,
and your habit of idle gossiping
while sharing disdainful glances with your friends
You should see how I cower at your hushed whispers
Just as I cower at the creak of floorboards
from the sound of your footsteps during sleepless nights
Mama, pray tell,
do you still talk about me to them
with the same pride you did when I was younger?
Perhaps you do
except not anymore with pride, nor with shame
but the line between the two
that people say is “worry”
Worry as you did when I chose a career you did not approve of
Worry as you did when I threw myself crying in your arms
Mama, papa, I am sorry
If my mouth is uncouth and my eyes are contemptuous
Still, I hope there is time to rectify my actions
I hope there is time for violence to no longer hurt
For your personalities shaped mine
and I am still learning how to unlearn them