i changed my name at school and kept my mother’s in my pocket.

   — it bled through the lining

              (it always does)

         her vowels too round for their roll call  
   i swallowed her accent to fit into my own throat

      but some days it still

                      clings to my gums
            / and tastes like apology
     i wrote HOME in my math notebook

                   with a pencil i stole
   and erased it so hard the page gave in
        (how else do you learn belonging?)

                       except by losing?
    the teacher said my name wrong

          for three years straight

            and i never corrected her  
                     (i wanted to be liked more than i wanted to exist)
       i learned to laugh where they laughed

         (even when it hurt)

 i became fluent in not-looking-back
      the kids asked me where i’m from

                   and i said

                  here.

                      (but they looked at my hands like liars)
 i learned silence is

             easier than explanation

      but some days it still chews through my teeth
             my grandfather never left his village

                      and still

                 they called us foreign
           i told them my skin is not a translation
                             (they laughed)
the flag on the classroom wall

        always looked like a dare
            // i stopped standing
    i wear my mother’s name

             inside my hoodie sleeve

     (where i can press it when no one’s watching)

                  she calls me in her tongue

                             and i answer like a ghost
     this is how to leave:

                    with your shoes still on

                    with your passport untouched

                    with your story mispronounced
    this is how to stay:

                  quiet

           and almost

                       and in pieces
             i immigrate every time

                     i speak

                           and don’t explain
    i still dream in a language

                      i never learned to write

       i still say thank you like i’m asking

                           to be allowed
                one day

                 i’ll say my name

                 and it won’t flinch.