My mother read my poem to me
and it felt like a breeze—
the staccato of her English
telling me I could breathe.

Every syllable pushing,
every word a war on her tongue,
but she rested in the trenches
& spent time with each one.

Her voice rolled back in
& she nodded in agreement with every line,
& I felt so many emotions
within me rise.

& when the last word left
her war-torn mouth,
the tears forming behind my eyes
left mine—
unspooling everything inside.

In the end,
all I had to give was on the page.
She called me an artist;
wondered why I’d never come to her,
why I’d never shown this to her.

I said:
« The only poetry you ever read
was written by God.
How could I fathom
offering you these mortal words? »

What I offer instead
is eternal love,
& it forms in these letters.
This is my offering.
All I have is this poem.