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"