to Leonarda, swapped the o from Leonardo
to confirm I was now your daughter.
You were my first step
father. This made the family laugh,
and you flashed that cool smile.
Your mustard, snake-skin boots
a beam of charm in the room
and a belt to match.
At school everyone said, he looks so young,
que guapo. I was proud.
Some evenings you put on
expensive cologne just to drive
me around in your blue truck
changing Bobby Pulido’s song
to a joke voy de pelado,
shameless. And you weren’t joking.
Ma told me you bought the truck
with money you took from the drawer
while she pulled her hair
out turning llantos to maldiciones,
watching tortillas fall on the floor
along with her dreams
of a family.
Sometimes I ask her what’s become of you.
He is an alcoholic. Never stopped. Pray for him.
Instead I remember the red plastic jeep
you sent one Christmas, how excited I was
to show it off and say it came from La Planta,
I misheard Atlanta, so every time I rode
around the plaza, I imagined you
like that little boy climbing up a big
stalk only to find a curt giant
blocking the entrance to the skies.
I must confess, sometimes you are
a character in my novel,
rastros de un rostro,
an unfinished portrait
filled in by one-sided details.
Though most days, I don’t think of you,
except with my windows down
one hand on the wheel
the other dancing in the wind
My voice singing voy desvelado
