For Andre
Fingers, lacking strength to type
Type anyway —
“Body is dead weight” “Can’t get out of bed”
Aunt Penny’s phone dances on our table
Full of appetizers awaiting relatives’ mouths
You’ll Spend the day alone; Recovering —
from your 12-hour shift hoisting crates
like Atlas’ bolder
Bones, worn by 67 years of gravity.
I’ll never know your kind of fatigue.
You scavenge for non-perishables
Crammed into barrels: Port-au-Prince-bound-vessels
Praying sustenance reaches the bellies
Of all the hungry souls –
to whom you feel responsible
Clenched for news of murder
Worry breaks down your insides
Like possessed chemicals.
30-years-ago you absorbed stares
At my grandmother’s shiva
In a home where dark-skinned-folks
ventured to prepare feasts, remove dust.
Once, you introduced me
to that place on Broadway
With the sweetest fried plantains
Where Creole-speaking countrymen
escaped the cab’s solitude
“I love you” you text my aunt
You’re not joining us on Thanksgiving.
Author’s Note: Over the coming years, it will more vital than ever to try and counteract demeaning and dehumanize language, especially directed against immigrants and the most vulnerable. It’s a cliché but true: the Torah practically shouts at us to welcome the stranger. I wrote this piece about year ago to express gratitude for one Haitian immigrant who I have known for decades, though nowhere near as well as would like. He’s showed up to mourn with my family when we lost my father and celebrate when my daughter became a bat mitzvah.
