By Fatema Aftab Miah

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I am my mother’s daughter. 

I am not fluent 

In languages I should be. 

I repeat unfamiliar words in my head 

Over and over 

To swallow a new culture

To survive. 

I lack native syntax 

But I discovered early on

That anger is always eclipsed 

By hunger,

That a meal can also say: 

I’m sorry 

I hope you forgive me

Let’s try again

While my ears fail 

To translate the whispers 

Of the motherland

They are skilled at reading 

The decibels of softness 

That wedge themselves between words.

I have been told that 

I smile like my father  —

All teeth and no shame

All grit and no restraint. 

And yet

My throat often betrays me;

It is joined to an unfamiliar tongue. 

And yet

I am still

My mother’s daughter.