By Oscar Mancinas
Not the one from the sierrain Northern Mexico.
Not the one who said kuira before hola before hello.
Not him: not my dad.
What’s he to do,working in a mine,
a teen deep in the
earth where
I love you cannot breathe?
Or when Indio blooms
into grapes
and triple-digit heat, and
he’s up before dawn,
done after I love you has
gone to sleep?
I love you isn’t at his
wedding, so what’s he
to know about love or you?
Or when
I crawl all over the
floor, grasping
at the world with
confidence like the morning
sun? Spitting and
crying, I see
dad and tug on his
dirty pant leg and beg
to be lifted. He picks love
up, and I
love you climbs from
his arms over his heart
to his shoulders. I
love you sits, rests my
cheek against dad’s
cheek and listens.