The Name Game

Another news report

about borders, about who belongs.

It gets under the skin,

like a splinter you can't quite dig out.

My mother, her voice thin with it,

correcting the cashier.

Again. The soft 's' instead of 'z'.

The weariness in it, a sound

I know too well.

My father, a wrench in his hand,

precise, but still a little foreign

to the land that swallowed him.

His dictionary, leather worn,

the pages soft from turning.

Still learning, still explaining.

Always.