i. 
you are four years old. grandma 
fetches you at the airport, still
clinging onto mama’s sagging arms; 
eyes drooping from jetlag and
three hours of sleep. 

you watch the unfamiliar city 
speed by the scratched taxi window:
tears reflect back in your face. 
you understand some chinese, courtesy of
the DVD’s mama borrows 
from your next-door neighbor,
but now you’re accosted with bullets: 
words flying in volleys on the street; 
accents jabbing and chasing 
your bunched-up tongue; 

you try to learn. 

ii. 
you are six now, 
back in america with a 
mind still clinging to your native home. 
you still dream of 
milky white buns, steamed
and bursting with chives and 
sizzling meat;
 the bustle of guangzhou traffic 
as grandma jostles you to preschool;
sandal-clad vendors hawking glistening
bok choy on plastic stools. 

you quickly adjust to the miss nancy’s and 
susan’s and the pledge of allegiance, but
your hometown seems even 
farther away than 7,215 miles. 

the guangzhou accent slips off of your
tongue,
slowly and sneakily, 
until you sound like you 
had never been there before. 

iii. 
you are fourteen now, 
in the suburbs of chicago; 
you like to say to anyone
who will listen - you are 
lady liberty, independent and free.

your friends show off
plastic cards that glare
in the sunlight: 
charge to my dad’s account. 
it’s no matter; you’ll ask 
for one too. 

mama calls her relatives 
on saturday mornings over
xi fan (for her; waffles for you), and 
you barely say hi. who are they, anyways? 
honey, grandma’s on the line --

you start to push in your chair,
(i’m too busy today) 
but a voice on the other end paralyzes
you -- you, a stone statue. 
nihao, i miss you so much. 

you grip the table,
stone melting away
in a river of regret; 
childhood memories awash
in stark red. you cry for
your lost past, your beloved
guangzhou, china; 
your forgotten 
motherland.

grandma, i have
so much to tell you...