Dad’s Accent
marinate ears in Tagalog
for the first eleven years,
season with Brady Bunch English
then move across an ocean,
your round brown face & bowl cut
lost in a Hawaiian airport.
live in L.A. with relatives, but learn
the stoney surfer drawl,
palm trees plastic compared
to your fruit-heavy home.
then move to the breastbone
where Michigan’s watery foot
tiptoes, Chicago. all tall
& cold. let the wind blow
through your tongue, burn it
on thick pizza & celery salted hotdogs.
then, head south to your new home.
the anklebone of Kentucky,
where FFA jackets make you think of L.A. gangs,
where talk is slow, where bundok
becomes boondock & your metal
dirt hands work machine into car,
Japanese food into country mouths,
your daughters from bluegrass soil
