To the man that raised me
My father walks through fire barefoot, carries his family across the ocean, fights off the sea and still has time to read me bedtime stories.
He tells me to breathe, inhale and exhale, life will follow your lead.
My father gave up his voice a long time ago in exchange for mine.
He knew about the continent inside my chest, about the earthquake that shakes me.
My father made sacrifices, traded his soul for ink and paper, he knew my words would soon begin to overflow.
That I was capable of drowning an entire city if provoked.
My father taught me how to speak, how to curse in my mother tongue.
He tells me to be honey, to stick to their palms.
And I listen to my father.
Poem By: Carla Lupou