In Response to Ada Limón's "Ancestors"

I come from ocean massaged under moonbeam,

salt scattered in search of libertad,

Cachao beats and bongos played poorly

after too many traguitos de ron.

I come from paper documents

stamped upon entry

when the difference between using blue or black ink

really mattered -- a bewildered child.

I come from language

lost, transmuted, rearranged

to make space for another.

I come from a moment

on an elevator in the 1970s,

where the Caribbean and suburbs of New Jersey meet--

a not so subtle request for tutoring.

I come from fear of not fulfilling potential,

education as tether to survival,

an always-grasp for something more.