Transliteration

The government form wants to know where I began,

but the city name has changed twice since then.

I watch my father’s shaking hand

failing to peel a citrus skin.

He mumbles an apology in the old tongue,

a sound like heavy stones being dragged across a floor.

He hasn't used that voice since I was young,

back when we still kept the letters in the drawer.

They’re still there, tied with a rubber band

that snaps like dry skin the moment it’s touched.

A stack of yellow air-mail from a land

he gave up everything to never visit much.