Papi says palabras peligrosas
carry the weight of scattered bullets.
He bought his house with clean hands
after military service, long after Trujillo
loaded shrapnel into innocent butterflies.
In feverish dreams of deep jungle
he whispered to himself asi es la vida
nadie puede derribarme.
Papi tells stories of fighting for an education,
carrying a single pencil, one water worn notebook,
all weapons I take for granted now.
Immigrating to the states requires talent and precision.
Banderas hang loose
from rearview mirrors.
Stars dim in the smog of our overpopulated cities.
The first time I wanted to die
Papi held my hand in the hospital bed,
the rifle long off his shoulders,
replaced with the cloak of fatherhood.
His biggest regret raised a dead-inside daughter.
He couldn’t predict the inescapable riot
of his offspring would bellow
an unearthed secret:
palabras peligrosas he dared not utter
quiero morirme.