sprig

Papers upon papers, sign here and initial there.

You are being picked apart and put together to perfectly fit the frame.

Finally, touch down.

Final destination is now.

Welcome to the golden gates.

Seed.

Planted in fertile, untouched terrain,

You are a seed

swept from the warm roots of home.

To a land so unknown,

Only seen from the screen,

and why is everything so clean?

Wait, she hands me back the woven pouch of my culture’s craftsmanship. Her eyes tell me she doesn’t want to keep it. The present, for her, is the cold cash inside. She doesn’t think twice, crushing my pride. Head hung low, I reach my hand out, and receive a blow of

Dirt.

And oh, how fresh dirt stains.

Mouthing of words unknown to your brain.

Laughter fills the strange terrain

like heavy pours of acid rain.

Now sister, you know, that the strength which shoots through my legs is not one that comes simply. It is full of twists and turns, people and papers, aggression and apples, backpacks and bruises.

Beware.

You need to be aware.

Don’t fear. Middle school will end, you will feel a bit more light, now that the kids at your school are little less white. As you explore the world, you will feel less like an outsider. Yet, “foreigner” that word burns your tongue. Then

Time passes,

Rain pours onto you.

Washing the dirt off bit by bit.

A higher mindset,

forget the threat,

embrace the wet.

You are still you, little seed.

Grow.

Learn.

Reach higher than the trees held at home,

reach farther than the boundaries known.

Welcome to the golden gate. You know the struggle is worth it. You can tell in the way your father leaves with the brightest smile on his face every morning to work another mundane job. You feel blessed to attend your school, with possibilities endless to you.

Sprig.

You have broken the dark dirt surface.

No longer the lion in the circus.

Absorbing and growing until you are big

Sprig, you are a sprig.