Isn’t it strange?
How a simple name said upon a strangers lips,
The enunciation, the rounded way of speaking,
How the Arabic and Urdu of a tongue can morph the poetry that leaves mouths?
This morning made me time travel,
Took me off my feet, and into a space of fantasy,
Drifted me to the days when you, Daddy, would ask me questions,
I constantly feel as though I am digging up your grave,
Bringing soil that still feels warm to to the surface,
Nutrients still assisting me in growth, watering my quenched spine,
My name coughed up through a throat of a man that doesn’t have my name embedded,
I am not his daughter,
Yet I find you curled up in the mannerisms of Men,
His voice felt like a dagger had caught onto the insides of my stomach,
And pulled me right on top of your gravestone,
Wondering what it would be like to hear your voice,
Just once more,
I wonder if I had I died in your place,
Would you have seen me in every atom,
I was your daughter, the wings of your spirit,
Instead I was left with a care that dissipated,
A mother who could neither love nor wanted to,
Selfless love, a refugee, trying to boat a body which rejects its every right,
An orphaned child,
I was taken back to mornings of milk.
How sweet yet sour it is,
To have your memory emulsified in a tongue that is unfamiliar,