“Bury It When You Land”
White Mom doesn’t talk about migration.
When she tries, she punctuates with hopeful
doom scrolling her work email.
She tells me about coming to California,
about a working 13-year-old slapping
sandwich layers together during lunch rush,
about a secret account and hidden cash
in books, about saving for private school
just to distance from them,
her voice lowers: Blacks.
Brown Dad doesn’t talk about migration.
When he tries, he punctuates it in sudden
departures for car repair and swap meets.
He tells me about entering White countries
about working weeks for free to show his
ability only to be paid under the table.
About “Sure,” he’d say. “Pay what you can,
when you can.” About how he could count
“what he could earn,” but was silent
“when they didn’t pay.”
The story I want to hear, though,
the one I press and ply her with drinks for,
is the why: Why move here?
The story I want to hear, though,
the one he tells indirectly in chores,
is the why: Why migrate?
The story I want to hear—the one I rewrite
and revise questions to dig with like
useslessly sharpened shovel blades—
is the story of a fracturing family
hoping a continental shift would somehow
make them whole.
The story I want to hear—the one I ask
only in my head because all tongues
to him are cutting blades--
is the story of a man moving oceans away
with a family on his back, keeping them together but not whole.
The story I want to hear,
the one she can’t tell because
there is no direct White translation
for the words is how:
“We were wrong.”
The story I want to hear,
the one he can’t tell because
like any muscle, the tongue needs exercise,
and his doesn’t move is how: “I had enough
strength to carry only us.”
Originally published in Mud Season Review