Dear Baba

Winter is so slow 

here, you have told me to be
grateful to the trees but loneliness is 
quiet like the bench overlooking the night-
blooming jasmines you planted—
knees soiled with watery monsoon dirt—

and abandoned.

Dear Baba

Here I am, listening to

a White man reading elegies, so hungry
my stomach growls at his father’s passing.
Before I saw the picture of your Iftar spread,
a small appearance of mother’s hands,
I had forgotten to cry 

my daily cry. 

Dear Baba

I hope you like

your debt spreadsheet
on Eid. There was a ghost,
I remembered to follow 
all your instructions to pray it away 
but in my dreams prayers don’t work on 

me away from home.

Dear Baba

I keep waiting 

for spring to break in
through the frames, on waves of linen.
Why does God forget, like you, 
some of us have to touch 
the grass 

to feel safe.