My father liked them separate, one there,
one here (allá y aquí), as if aware
that words might cut in two his daughter’ s heart
(el corazón) and lock the alien part
to what he was — his memory, his name
(su nombre) — with a key he could not claim.
“English outside this door, Spanish inside,”
he said, “y basta.” But who can divide
the world, the word (mundo y palabra) from
any child? I knew how to be dumb
and stubborn (testaruda); late, in bed,
I hoarded secret syllables I read
until my tongue (mi lengua) learned to run
where his stumbled. And still the heart was one.
I like to think he knew that, even when,
proud (orgulloso) of his daughter’ s pen,
he stood outside mis versos, half in fear
of words he loved but wanted not to hear.