They tell me stories of their oceans
how they crossed them
discarding motherlands like old loves,
the people they left behind-
"you come from a family of heartbreakers"
lighting cigarettes they tell me it tasted better back home
yellowed pulps of sun-drenched mango
the thick skin of sugarcane
air; hot and sweet from overripe lychee trees-
my grandmother was married under one.
heritage blossoming in dark, dampened soil
"in your palm, the life of five generations"
we share the same eyes
brown, like the sandalwood
that grew in their backyard
ancestry running through
purple green veins
the daughter of the immigrant
has a history too.