I am from a pot,
from caramel and olives.
I am from the whispers.
I am from the wind,
the trees
I am from Thanksgiving dinner
and brown skin,
from Eva
and Carmelle and Eliana.
I am from the stories
and humor.
From persistence
and self-love.
I am from Catholicism.
From reading at mass.
I’m from Brooklyn, Peru, Ecuador, and Haiti
From Lomo Saltado and Aji de Gallina.
From the mother who smiled when her daughter received her doctorate,
the mother who laughs and gossips with her daughter
and the father who works long hours.
I am from photo albums, picture frames, paintings, and iPhone lockscreens.
From old, cherished memories.
I read this poem and thought of my childhood where I use to live in DR.
I really loved your poem because because I was able to picture where you were from . I can also tell that you come from so many backgrounds. I also liked how you inserted a picture to give a visual.