I’ll never forget the day you told me
I was the better version of you.
Still, you taught me all the ways to tell a daughter
you loathed her in several languages,
even though you spoke only one.
Your words cut deeper than the swords I wear
on my shoulder, a tarot card tattoo,
homage to you.

In Guantánamo, when you and Abuela were down
to just one cup of rice, you, Cuban girl, dreamed
of a house covered in red roses.
At 19, you landed at the height of a blizzard in Detroit,
hoping to smell those flowers.
But you never did and now
that garden adorns my collarbone.

We moved to Hialeah — walking down Okeechobee on the weekends,
you’d buy me guarapo juice,
and you’d always ask if I knew who I was.

I sipped, hoping by the time I finished my drink I’d have an answer.
But all I could say was
I don’t know, Mama.

Because you and Abuela would straighten my hair
to make me look like Hannah Montana.
I know what you mean now — look Americana.
Because when you came here, mixed woman,
with your olive skin and curly black hair, men would touch
your locks, and women would look at you
like you were an animal.

You didn’t want the gringo people to think
I was an animal,
but Mama, you still kept me in a cage, and
I don’t know how to live
outside of one.

In high school, I did mock trial during the day and drama club at night.
Sometimes when the light would shine just right,
Mama, I’d see you in the audience.
I never felt more like myself than when I was playing
someone else.
But how could I tell you?

Nathaly and I took her silver Camry to the mall,
where all we could do was look.
I’d run into my mock-trial friends, buying the sweets I could never afford.
This empty stomach was always full of guilt.

I’d see them in class — I was still playing a part.
The part where I was “Americana con dinero.”
But with the holes in my shoes and the Goodwill tag on my shirt,
Mama, they could always tell.

An invisible leash grips my neck.
Like a dog, I look sad and widen my eyes,
begging others to let me out,
but if it’s ever opened,
I hesitate and crawl back in.
How do I manage to bark so loudly at others
with a muzzle?

Still unhappy with these frizzy curls, crying when I pull out the flat iron,
wincing when I smell my own hair burning.

Just like how Abuela doesn’t smoke anymore, but always smells like cigarettes,
some stains are forever, and I feel like it’s my 600th day in a shelter.
A poor little pitbull, always the last choice.

Looking in the mirror, I see only what people want me to be.
Mama, I’ve looked through your sepia Polaroids,
your 14th birthday, a cake hardly bigger than a muffin.
Two candles burning, barely illuminating your frilly dress.
You wear a frown.

Who were you before I started to call you Mom?

I’ve covered this skin in tattoos and scars
only to live a life of button-ups and turtlenecks.
I’ve altered my voice to say yes instead of no
because it’s what you said would get me far.

You used to tell me poor people
don’t always get hand-me-downs.

But you handed over the same pain
your mother did.
I’d rather keep it like a collar,
forever bound to my neck,
than hang it in my daughter’s closet.

Mama, I just want to walk down Okeechobee,
let the breeze cool the sweat that drips behind my curls.
And when you ask me who I am, I want to say that I am me and mean it.
Instead, all I can do is thirst for guarapo juice to heal me again,
and hope that I have an answer by the time I finish.

Sometimes I wonder if I would’ve cried 
harder in life if I had stayed in Chicago or Detroit. 

What is it about Florida that keeps me 
yearning, yet also, seemingly, never full of joy? 
Maybe it’s wishful thinking to assume 
that a blue, bootleg snowcone would’ve been enough. 

All I can do is simply dream of palm trees and sand gritting my feet,
instead of cowering at the sun. 

How do I peel oranges, 
enjoy the bitter citrus and pulp down my throat, 
when the lonesome air I breathe in 
brings me to choke?

Florida, your sunshine comes out on days when I stay in, 
on days when zero messages ping my phone and ask me how I’ve been. 
Florida blues really hurt, Florida blues really suck, 
I live where people vacation, and I know I’ve had enough.

I thought that when I got older, 
my childhood fears would sit still. 
Now they’re only stronger,
and I pay my own bills. 

(I’m scared of dying) 

In high school, there was a lockdown. 
My friends and I hid in an attic room, 
uploading selfies, throwing peace signs, 
in case the coroner needed proof.

And when Parkland’s obituaries were posted, that’s when I knew this state was cruel. 
Florida, how could I surf freely on your beach, but not feel safe at school? 
Still, there’s always Disney — or a trail and a park 
and a game of “fireworks or gunshots” every time this state gets dark. 

I still remember Hurricane Irma: the same year I was homeless. 
Sleeping on 1010 Palm Avenue and motels in a state 
where I’m deemed worthless. 
And when food went scarce and my mom needed more EBT,
Florida, you turned her away because I had just turned eighteen,
and that made me an adult who could “up and get a job,” 
because up in Tallahassee they can’t hear South Florida sob.

(As if a bagger at Publix can feed a family of four) 

Yet I don’t want to leave you, Florida — my mom and brother are still here.
But with every day that passes, I know it’ll get worse by the year.
I guess this sunshine only looks sunny when it’s a nice day on the beach.
Otherwise it’s just another day spent moping in the heat. 

All I ask is for sugarcane juice to heal me on a hot day when I crave a swim, 
when the wind seems to call the breeze and my shirt sticks to my skin.  

Florida blues really hurt, Florida blues really suck, 
I live where people vacation, and I know I’ve had enough. 
I want to sprint down Hollywood beach with my mother and our friends, 
and not hear her worry every month when it’s time to pay the rent. 

Florida, 
maybe one day your sunshine comes out on a day when I stay in, 
and I’ll get a genuine phone call just asking me how I’ve been.