Wilfredo Alba

I’m Not Like My Parents

I don't have sandpaper 

hands from shucking oysters 

for 35 years, and I've never cleaned someone 

else's toilet or pricked my finger on needles

hemming pants for White men.

I lay my outfit out every night 

to look cute 

for tourists, who can't pronounce 

Wilfredo.

I put Will on my name badge 

because it's white people friendly.

The Salvadoran ladies who shop at my store 

once said to each other that it was sad

that I didn’t know Spanish,

and Will was probably short

for Wilfredo or Wilson.

Maybe they knew

I understood them.

I’m not like my parents

They met on the metro.

Love at first sight, 30 years.

I fuck on the first date and hope

to hear from them again.

I'm Not Like My Parents Pt. 2 

I'm not like my parents.

I took care of my credit, 

and I got a degree 

in English, “Whatta you do with that?" 

I’ve never had to turn off the lights

when landlords come by,

and I didn't cross 3 rivers to live in a van, 

in between apartments, 

living with Welita for a while,

-Wife and 3 kids

-4 if you count the one who ran away 

-5 if you count the one some dumb bitch 

in El Salvador suffocated to spite my Welita.

She always kept a picture of his tiny purple body 

on the mantle while she called me fat 

and told me to stop speaking English 

in her house

I moved to New York on the wings my dad

always wished he had. Bouncing 

me on his lap,

telling me he wanted to be 

"Como los pajaritos" 

His wings were "El Tren de la Muerte" 

La Bestia 

Mine were JetBlue.

I'm not like my parents 

But I am my parents 

I'm not Mexican 

I'm not Salvadoran 

I'm not American 

I'm not White. 

Not to any of them anyways. My Spanish 

isn't good good enough, and I tan too well.

I'm Chicano 

I'm Texas 

I'm New York 

I'm a Gentrifier, but I can pass for Local 

I'm educated 

I'm lonely 

I'm sex 

I'm a writer 

I get pissed off and write a poem about it 

I get heartbroken and write a poem about it 

I'm not like my parents, 

but my dead grandmother,

Mama 

She still visits me. We sit on a bench

by a single light post,

mist and darkness all around us,

and she rubs her fingers across my face,

getting to know the changes.