seams and stitching ♡ published

LETTER TO GRANDFATHER

dear grandfather,
you are missing eight teeth.
you would have had exactly
five children
if two had not miscarried.
one of your daughters is walking
the streets of the city
you can no longer call home,
wondering why she did not deserve
to be like my mother and uncle,
why she did not deserve to
have you more than a phantom.
do you ever think about her?
the daughter who was not supposed
to have been created,
the daughter you successfully
erased from your memory.
you don't even know her name.
dear grandfather,
my mother sometimes wishes
she was the daughter you erased.
the daughter who did not have
to know you.
i ask myself some days,
who had it worse: the daughter
who had to wonder about you,
or the daughter who had to try
to forget?
dear grandfather,
you are missing eight teeth.
your hair is turning grey.
your skin looks like leather.
you can no longer call
any place home. do you miss the
island, the big city?
you have a daughter who
does not know you. you have a
daughter who wishes she
did not know you.
a life time ago you did not eat.
you came to the door in a wife-beater
and boxer shorts, your eyes
wild, yellow, glassy, your eyes
a natural disaster, your body a hollow
vessel. you told me you
did not eat because the
food was poisoned. apparently
the beer was not poisoned.
you once watched the
Twin Towers fall and cried.
did you cry watching your fourteen-
year-old wife throw up
over the side of the bed, her legs
slick with blood, the sheets
a crime scene? she told you
that you could not love her, that if
you truly loved her you would
not have hurt her.
you sat and watched her wipe
vomit off her mouth, watched her
ask you something you
did not hear.
dear grandfather,
did you watch your children drop
those pieces of paper flickering
with flames all the way
down the fire escape?
did you lean out the window
and stare as the fire spiraled
down the concrete, a
green bottle clasped in your hand around the neck, smile as
the people on
the ground shouted up?
your son titled his chin up to you
the day he thought he could
take you in a fight.
he stormed out of the apartment
that day with a black-eye.
dear grandfather,
you watched The Hulk cartoons
until the age of fifty.
your children tried to help you;
your wife left you for a man who
sang drunken Spanish love songs to
her when they crawled into bed.
for you, there was always
the metal chair.
the wooden head-board.
the empty fridge.
my father moved in with you because
he did not have enough money
to move to another state.
mami wants to leave,
across the country and
he will not let us.
grandfather, you are the reason for
the jagged scars
across grandmother's wrists, you
are the reason she did not
bleed out. you ran more than
ten blocks to the hospital with her
in your arms.
she married you to get out
of an abusive home.
still, every Saturday afternoon she
would go to her mother's house
and feed her with a spoon.
dear grandfather,
do you remember the Christmas
you spent with mami in
the housing unit? you got drunk
and set your dresser on fire.
mami almost burned to death. when
she moved to Connecticut,
you disappeared for four months.
no phone-call. no letter.
no surprise visit. New York and CT
are an hour-drive away.
she would lay awake at night
and wonder if you were still alive.
dear grandfather,
your son broke your daughter's jaw.
grandmother pulled mami
out of school, drove to the house
where my uncle was staying
with his girlfriend who he didn't love
and his newborn child.
she banged on the door and told him
he had to come out.
mami stood in the door way.
he shoved open the door, cursed,
and punched my mother
in the mouth. there were screams.
grandmother ran from the porch.
mami doubled over, her
hands pressed to her face. where
were you, when all of this
occurred?
dear grandfather,
you worked at a high-quality hotel,
standing by the elevator.
every night you would come home
and tell your daughter about
the doll-house you were making her.
you told her the amount of windows.
the color of the rooms.
everything about the house.
my mother believed you. do you
remember when she realized
you had lied all along? there was no
house. you lied.
when my mother got married
to my father, he bought her a doll-
house. she worked on it
everyday while she was pregnant.
it was for me.
the day my father left, he took
the house and threw it across
the living room.
mother never wanted to marry him,
anyway. grandmother told
her she had to because he was the
man she had lost her virginity to.
dear grandfather,
you once had a cat. she would
claw her way up doorjambs,
wait for you to walk inside
and pounce on you.
you thought it was loving. my
grandmother thought it
was malicious. that cat made her
terrified of all other cats.
do you remember the way she would
curl up next you on the couch?
my grandmother's small, young
body pressed against yours.
my mother used to hear
the cracking of leather belts
on backs, of her mother's cries
as your knuckles connected
with her mouth.
dear grandfather,
you are missing eight teeth.
you have a daughter who does
not know you.
you have a daughter who wishes
she did not know you.
the other morning, you pointed up
at the sky and shouted:
"half a moon! who ate the other half?"
and i shook my head.
dear grandfather,
i want to point at you and shout:
"half a man! who ate the other half?"
dear grandfather,
you are missing eight teeth.
you like to say "i love you more."
your knuckles have connected
with my grandmother's mouth.
there is blood on your hands
that you cannot wash away.
your sheets were once a crime scene,
my grandmother asked you a
question you did not hear.
sometimes you dance alone in
your living room, and imagine
her body pressed against yours.
maybe you did not mean
to abuse her. maybe it just turned
out the way it did. but she
left you long ago, she's
with a man who sings her
drunken Spanish love songs when
they crawl into bed.
you once cried when you saw the
Twin Towers fall. you have
a daughter who you don't know.
maybe you were meant to
know her. maybe you were meant to
watch the pieces of paper lit on fire
fall down to the sidewalk.
maybe you were meant to miss
the island, the big city.
maybe you were meant to have
someone tell you: "i love you more."
dear grandfather,
do not look at your hands
and see blood. do not beat yourself
up over your daughter you
do not know. do not turn on The Hulk
cartoons. the food is not
poisoned. the beer is poisoned.
dear grandfather,
maybe you were meant to
run more than ten blocks
with grandmother in your arms,
all the way to the hospital.
maybe you were meant to be
a whole man.
dear grandfather,
the neighbors do not think
you are a
police officer because
of the shoes you wear. no
one is chasing
you down the hall--
those are your footsteps
you hear.
dear grandfather,
you once cried when you saw
the Twin Towers fall.
you were once meant for
so much more than
dancing alone in the living room,
imaging my grandmother's
body pressed against yours.
dear grandfather,
maybe you were meant to
hear the question grandmother
asked you. maybe you were meant
to wipe the vomit off her mouth.
dear grandfather,
the food is not poisoned.
the beer is poisoned.
dear grandfather,
you were once meant for
so much more than having
half of you eaten.
you were once meant for
so much more than making up
tales of a house, than
disappearing for four months,
than being a phantom of a father
for one of your poor daughters.
dear grandfather,
do you remember the color of
the sky the night those
pieces of paper lit on fire
fluttered all the way down to the
concrete? do you remember
the color of the crime scene sheets?
dear grandfather,
you are missing eight teeth.
your hair is turning gray.
last night i walked in on you
dancing in the living room, all by
yourself, imaging my grandmother's
body pressed against yours.
dear grandfather,
you were once meant for
so much more than this.
so much more than having to
be lied to, having to be told that
the beer is poisoned.
dear grandfather,
do not wrack your brain,
trying to find the answer to
the question grandmother asked you
and you did not hear.
do not wrack your brain,
trying to remember where
you were when your son
broke your daughter's jaw.
dear grandfather,
the beer is poisoned.
dear grandfather,
you were once meant for
so much more than
having your granddaughter
write you a letter like this.
dear grandfather,
i love you more.