Natives declared illegal, upturned sacred graves

Paddle over tongues of water, Colonialist’s Delight.

Indian accent over phone lines, xenophobia our birthright

We fight over scraps, these holes onto our souls engraved

Shimo’ cross over in the flat of the night

Paddle over tongues of water, Colonialist’s Delight.

Rolling through a Four-Way

9:35 a.m. on a bright day on the way to day care one cop is positioned behind the wheel back on the side where your toddler dark hair yellow skin like a burst of a reverse sunflower sits strapped into her booster seat a hand on his gun elbow cocked a scarecrow angle do I make myself as small a target as possible as my people have learned to do in this country will it save me will my daughter see me handcuffed or shot when I reach for the insurance information will I blame the closest person to me will I blame myself who will blame me who will say I have no right to say anything on the other side of the horizon of glass the police officer asks you to roll your window down his claw on the butt of his gun standing as if shielding the whiteness of his hand against the matte black gun but you can see it the other cop’s gun in the mirror too both closer than they appear

Bu Cua Cá Cọp

—With thanks to Sahra Nguyen for the refugee-style slogan

After the martial arts and the dancers and the bamboo xylophone

they bring out the board for bu cua cá cp.

To save money, my dad made our board,

used a soup bowl to trace the six large circles,

drew the fish, prawn, crab, rooster, calabash, and stag himself.

The heavy white dice he had to buy,

as if to taunt his hypocrisy:

making a gambling game at the same time as telling us to save money.

The same reason he only gave me two quarters to blow at Thompson’s

Arcade.

What he never had to say:

Waste what you got

pretty soon

you’ll waste what you don’t got, too.

They give the kids candy to bet.

My daughter loses the first four rounds;

she’s a quiet wire as they take her candy away, piece by piece.

When she finally wins, I ask if she wants to play again.

No! she shouts, grabbing her candy, I want to go home!

True refugee style: Take everything you got and run with it.

II.

Future Letter to Daughter Apologizing for When I Caved to Her Request and Brought Her to Barbie’s Dreamhouse at Mall of America

So many times I wish I were stronger.