tell my mother

tell my mother i’m proud to look like her.
tell her i smile when i’m called her nickname—
ligaya, tagalog for felicity,

translate my mother’s name back into
the mother tongue for my mother’s mother.
felicitas.

tell my mother i wear the resting bitch face
i inherited from her
like a crown.

tell her she showed me
with her working hands
that “strong” and “capable” are terms
that describe brown women.

tell her how my smile glowed
when i got my first freckle
and laid outside until I had more
painted just
like hers. 

tell her that her wrinkled fingers
will soon be lola’s hands
that once looked like mine
i hope that i can cook like lola did once
mine age that way.

tell my mother i wouldn’t have my job
if she hadn’t
taught me what she had taught herself.

tell her i know she didn’t mean
to repeat her mother’s mistakes
in forgetting to teach me my anatomy
but that i learned her power
and I had it when i found my limbs.

tell my mother that i delight
in being her spitting image

but I cannot return to the nest this season—
i must define ligaya for my own.