My brown eyes belong
to my mother
as well as my hair
and my lips
and my smile.

My long legs belong
to my father
as well as my toes
and my eyebrows
and my laugh.

And yet my tongue
belongs to both my parents
and to me
and to no one at all.
It floats along the Seine
until it reaches the ocean
and lands in a puddle of maple syrup.
It cheers at baseball games
but then follows the home run
out into a cricket game.
It trembles along streets lined
with red lanterns, only to
climb the towers of the Sagrada Familia.

My tongue twists and turns
travels far and wide
and yet, it does not have a home
for my accent is wrong
and my English is broken.
I have tried for so many years
to find a place for my tongue to call home
without feeling half-English
or half-worthy, or torn.

For how can something which has never been built
be broken?