Sparrows tumbled from my throat,
which is to say that my Grandfather is on the phone
and my Spanish is not what it used to be.
I spin silky yarns across the sea
of an American Dream he’s only seen in telenovelas.
He wants to know what mom left home for
so I fill sidewalk cracks with 24 karat gold
and turn graffiti into stained glass marvels.
He drinks in my descriptions like communion wine,
savors each syllable like it’s the crimson Blood of Christ
and I pray that he believes me.
God, I pray that he believes.
The heat hasn’t worked for weeks
but I paint him a fireplace,
a winding spiral staircase,
a home mud could never dream of.
I don’t mention the growing mold
or how when it rains, it leaks,
or the landlord tired of bounced checks
or how mom cries when she thinks i’m asleep
but through the sprawling, tangled wires
i’ll give abuelo the world, and tonight,
he’ll sleep better than ever before.