An Immigrants Grand-daughter

In the rarely quiet moments of our home

I can hear the beating drums of a familiar place 

The smell of Cuban coffee fills the room 

And I swear, for a moment

I can see it in their eyes 

Their home

The stories and traditions they carried across oceans

 have now been given to me by tired hands  

Their dreams are my foundation 

Etched in the rhythm that mark our history

I live in the balance

of their memories and my own experience

Behind me, I see sacrifice grit, and a culture too beautiful to grasp

I cling to it like oxygen

Before me are a million things that could suffocate me

if it weren’t for their fresh air 

Inhala y exhala 

The scent of coffee still lingering 

a testament to the resilient lineage that lies within me