Now that we are

Two brown women

In this country that still asks

Where we’re really from
There are so many things

I wish I’d told you
Your great grandmother shelled peas in a steel bowl

Your great grandfather sat on park benches with invisible signs

Your great aunties made magic in the kitchens of my childhood

Your great uncles carried imperialism in their bow-legged bodies
Now that we are

Two brown women

In this country that still

Can’t pronounce our names
There are so many things

I wish I’d told you
Mustard seeds only pop in very hot oil

Summer rain makes me cry

Round chapatis are hard to make

I still smell death in marigolds