Pan de Fiesta

“Se dice pan de fiesta,”
My father says to me.
Pan de fiesta,
Bread for the feast.

I held the image in my hands,
But never knew its taste.

In the playground of the school
They pull me by the arms.
They accuse me of things I haven’t done.
They do not speak my language.

They do not understand.

Away from my home, 
I bury myself in another language,
Hoping to be understood.
When my grandfather falls ill,
In my broken tongue
I tell him that I love him—
He does not understand.

And with the years that pass
Like haze over the hills 
With the glow of ever-present longing,
A memory returns:

My mother singing songs
In my mother tongue.
A family gathering,
Where the children dance
And sing.