By Sylvia Candiote
In the eyes of your daughter If this were a good Immigrant poem I would tell you That I did not understand My father Until I learned to speak The language of cut up fruit I would tell you of Lovingly prepared plates After 12 hour days I’d list them for you In his native tongue La manzana, el pomelo, la papaya Esta es la verdad La lengua de mi padre Es violencia y no pude amarlo hasta que Yo hablé con él En su propia lengua
Sylvia Candiote is an American-Argentine poet. Drawing on the rich history of Latin American poets, her work explores her childhood in America as well as the intersection of LGBTQ and ethnic identity. She currently resides in Buenos Aires with her cat and fig tree.