little fingers
fumbling through white chalk-
the unsteady movement becomes almost graceful

your roots
l a t i n o  m e x i c a n o immigrant

bear only dahlia, small child-
            does your heart heal
when your throat grows rain forests and you say
"trees bring me closer to God"

the white dust becomes your father-
his calloused hands throwing

daydreams

and your inability to play basketball
in the form of broken glass bottles

fragility-
allows me to only be honest
your candied blood cannot erase
what your fingers can

"the toy box is safe"