My mother has the kind of celestial tongue
that is too pure for English.
First time going to Miami – one small bag in one hand and
hopes of reunion in the other;
all without knowing how to introduce herself.
America. The promised land of prosperity.
First world country. Land of the free.
America, so much to offer.
Let the match begin.
Round 1: My mother is stopped at the airport.
A whirlwind of questions, people talking way too fast.
She is taken to a separate room.
She is half naked. Afraid.
She pukes, they watch. She takes a shit, they watch.
They ask her if she’s lowkey fucking a drug lord.
She cries she doesn’t even do drugs.
She begs “Please, if you don’t want me in America
please just send me back to Colombia
but don’t make me do this anymore please.”
Twenty-five blows to her self-esteem. All they see is a criminal.
Round 2: She goes back.
This time, passport in a sweaty hand
and the memory of her exposed self,
the cold air surrounding her, is engraved in her mind.
Round 3: She tells herself that every time she doesn’t get stopped
she’s winning. She doesn’t believe it.
Round 4: Airports scare her. Embassies scare her. America scares her.
Final Round: She doesn’t want me to go to college in America. I can write
anywhere else.
She makes me promise her I won’t talk to anyone at the airport
no matter how much they might need my help.
She tells me mija, no hables en español,
what if you get hurt because of it?
I have to call her twice a day but she won’t allow
me to do it in public,
she just wants to make sure my life is not at stake.
I want to tell her the fight is over. Baja los guantes, ma.
But I don’t. Because crossing the American border means nothing
when every time I meet someone there is a new border to cross.
Cocaína, Marihuana, Colombiana.
Round 1: Baja los guantes, ma. This is my fight now.
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