The scent of carne con frijoles fill my nostrils
as my Grandmother stirs the *** with her hands the color
of the soil my Great Grandfather raked under the scorching sun.
I look down at my hands smooth and callous- free,
because I do not know what it is like to have back pains
from picking vegetables for my children of 9.

My mother would tell me stories as she braided my hair before school,
like my Great Grandmother braided her raven hair that cascaded to her hips.
Una mestiza misma as they say,
With her blue eyes from the Spanish in her
and the sage hair inherited from the Indigenous woman ***** and shunned
Losing her culture and her language along the way.

But the Indigenous woman’s lineage exists within me
along with the Spanish conquistador
Who moves my mouth to form
words and phrases that are not English.
I am her with my high cheekbones and muddy eyes.
I am him with my fair skin and thick brows.
I am me but I am also my mother, father, grandmother, grandfather
who call Panama home.

-m.p