I was at a poetry reading

She spoke about immigration

Loss of culture

Loss of identity

She spoke about chaos, confusion

She said

"father I don't understand what I am writing"

Now I've taken it entirely out of context

Father, I don't understand what I am writing

I think she meant language

My immigrant mother desperately trying to strike the match and fuel the flame

That never existed in the first place

Is a mother tongue

Just your mother's?

Is a mother tongue the language you speak to her in?

Her fifth? Your first?

Her last country

Is it her birthplace? Her dad's? Her teen years?

That summer in the war zone

Her gap year?

Father I don't understand what I am writing

Applies to languages yes

But what about my poetry

I type so fast

My mind strings sentences

Metaphors hung like fairy lights

The English language, (my only btw)

Squirming and evading my grasp

My English teachers stare and harsh words

Will forever stain my pen

Will forever bleed the ink

And will forever deter me from

The confides of freitags pyramid

Or sonnet structure

My poetry will forever be free

Words hung in the air

Like drying washing

Will I understand what I'm writing?

I have so much to say

And not enough languages

Not enough time

Thoughts race round

Running rings like Saturn

Will they ever be found?

Ever get out?

Will I ever understand what I'm writing? Father!

Do I write to live? Write to breathe?

My right to life tainted by

A lot of things

What are some things that make you inhuman?

Immigrant, queer, disabled, female

Activist, creative,

Won't fit in a box

Like she said "a tree can't breathe

In a pot"