banana bread

a poem for mom

my mom says i love you
more than i can count
in texts, in phone calls
in the way she checks if I’ve eaten
if i’m warm enough
if i’ve locked the door

but sometimes
this sort of love
still doesn’t land
it floats
just above my skin
because what i’m really craving
is a language we don’t both fully speak

she says it again
through a loaf of banana bread
wrapped in foil
creased like habit
tucked like she’s packing
all the love
she has to offer
in one warm thing

sometimes she asks me
the same question
three different ways in english
that feels too narrow
for what she means
and i get annoyed
roll my eyes
think—we’ve been over this, mom

but lately i’ve been
listening harder
rewinding her words
like subtitles out of sync
trying to catch
the sentiment
between the pauses

I’m thinking of one particular day
I’m mad at her, tired of repeating myself
my silence a wall
she kept trying to climb
with one too many questions

and later
alone
i opened the gifts she left behind
one of my favorite Filipino dishes
pancit
two bags of dried mango
and her banana bread
each bite
a paragraph
in the language she speaks best:
food

there’s a card game
called Parents Are Human
that translates questions
into the language
we’ve forgotten to practice
and one night
I asked her a question in Tagalog
and something in her voice softened

she didn’t search for words
they came up
like breath
and for the first time
I didn’t just hear her
I felt her

I used to think
my mom wasn’t a poet
but maybe
I just didn’t know
how to read her

she leaves her poems
on my kitchen counter
every time
she comes to visit

banana bread
sliced just right
sweet
with the ache
of everything
we still don’t quite know
how to say