My Mother Told Me This Would Be Hard
the only way my child will sleep is holding a toy dump truck
it’s wood, and that makes me a good mother
sorts shapes too, and i limit the time he spends delighting
at a green frog and a purple penguin
i whisper small promises
read about an ice cream-eating caterpillar
about the wheedle on the needle
about a bunny named nicholas
i sing dreams and big wishes
into bob dylan lyrics
thinking maybe he’ll ask me to dance with him
if it plays one day at his wedding
one day
i try to teach him words my mother taught me
tell him his dadu’s adrak chai was without rivals
and haldi will stain everything yellow
but i have forgotten how to say
i am sorry for insisting on lunchables
for shaming you when you packed parathas
rolled with love in the early morning
for calling them gross weird unamerican
the only way my child will sleep is holding a small american flag
he waves it slowly as he drifts off
it’s secure,
and that makes me a good mother
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