My hands tremble in my lap,
breath hitching, eyes darting,
the right side of my mom’s car.
I’m always on
the verge of panic when I
see a police car next to my family’s.
No matter where I go, panic is
always there.
Even in my home I am not safe
behind my white, locked door.
I can’t feel safe knowing someone
might bang on it one day.
My pulse thumping in my ear
as names of loved ones are
read out, demanding the door be
opened.
Though my parents promised me
a future without worry, I know
it can’t be guaranteed.
Death is inevitable, but I’ll still
mourn their absence in the wind.
Because of their roots, their skin,
and the language they spoke
won’t be here with me.
I have to appreciate them more.
Be mindful of every moment
with them because– maybe–
they won’t die, but they won’t
be together.
They’ll have a home, but one
that’s miles away from the one
I grew up in.
They won’t see their daughter cross
the stage, witnessing what awaits,
a larva leaving its cocoon.
They won’t see me represent my name in bold,
the reason they came to America.
With two changes of clothes, zero
money, and hope.
They won’t see me grow with
my husband and kids, hand in
hand, as they’re told their grandparents
were aliens and didn’t belong here.
It gives me heartburn every time
I fear the day my parents
aren’t by me, and I’ll have
to grow up.
And I’m not ready to grow
up. I’m just a teen, wanting
my mom and dad in the
front row of my graduation,
with a bouquet of pink tulips.
I don’t want to live in
a world where I constantly tell
my parents I love them, scared
they won’t pick me up or
sit in a room with chained
wrist.
I don’t want to live in
a world with shaky hands, in
an unfamiliar place.
