the one signed and dated
Betita-September 17
Ms. Martinez’s handshake is
warmer than yesterday’s.
She holds my hands between
hers like an empanada
in an oven
and blinks her small lashes.
Do you have any questions, Betita?
Before I can cry, I ask:
Why would ICE take my papi?
He only works.
Hurts nobody.
Will they make him go back
to the mountain where
mean men can hurt him?
Back to an Abuelita Lola
whose soft wrinkles
we aren’t supposed to know?
She hugs me and answers,
They might, sweet Betita.
Those who make laws don’t care
how much your father gives.
Their laws are not always fair.
But there are others who might help him.
They are fighting for all those who migrate.
Two days since I’ve seen Papi’s smile.
My own smile hides beneath my sadness.
So, I tug the cut pillow cloth
up
to my nose
and smell
the trace
of his feathers
in the cotton.
Mami tells our flock
after three days they finally found
where they are keeping Papi.
Tía Raquel brings us
caldo de verduras and tortillas
enough for the whole week.
Tío Juan brings us
people in suits
(lawyers, they call them)
who remind me of Ms. Martinez
with the way they speak
Spanish to Mami
English to themselves
though Mami can speak both.
I only catch one of their names … Fernanda.
I don’t understand
so many words.
“Petition,” “failed to appear,” “political asylum,” “deportation”
only that Papi will be
put on a plane and flown
to Mexico.
Papi will not be able to
come back to us
for ten years, if he is lucky.
Fernanda explains,
He failed to appear in court
to have his petition heard.
It calls for immediate deportation.
But he didn’t receive notice!
Mami’s explanation collapses like
the crushed tissue in her hand.
What about ours?
Yours is still current but I will
also file for political asylum.
There is no telling how long it will take
or if your case will be approved at all.
Or, we could go
meet him in Mexico
a place too dangerous
to call home.
Time is slipping.
Mami has to decide.
She cups her hands
over her tummy
and lowers her face
to the ground.
Our flock huddles around Mami
touches the brown tips
of their wings together
and holds her
while she cries.
Papi once told me,
The Nahuatl name for brown cranes is tocuilcoyotl.
Some lighter cranes cover their feathers
with mud to hide from predators while nesting.
I want to run out
to our yarda
and make a mud pile
so big
there is
enough
to cover
our entire
duplex
from
the
world.
Mami sends me to school
with Diana and Amparo.
She has been sick
in the bathroom
all morning.
A rope of knots
turned in my panza too
when I helped Mami
to bed
before I left.
As I walk, I wonder
if the plane Papi was on
flew higher
than the travel paths
of birds.
I wonder if Papi
is with Abuelita Lola yet
though we aren’t
even supposed to call
her on the phone
because they might
find us.
I wonder if he was allowed
to take his hammers with him
to help him fight
if the cartel
comes for him.
in the mountain
in a nest
built of mud.
I wish we were
with Papi
and I didn’t
have a Mami
so sad, she’s sick
and alone
in bed.
Diana says,
Be patient with your mami. On top of everything else
the new baby she’s carrying is turning her upside down.
A baby, our own egg?
Why didn’t she tell me?
Oh! I’m sorry, Betita. I thought you knew.
I shake my head and bite my lower lip.
Maybe ’cause she didn’t want to worry you.
It’ll be okay, Betita. She’ll feel better in a month or two.
I don’t understand
why Mami and Papi
keep things from me.
Hey, it’s good to be an older sister!
Babies are squishy all over and they
giggle when you act goofy.
Amparo opens her eyes wide.
But then, I don’t hear Amparo anymore
because I think about the color
of the shell around Mami’s baby
inside the nest of her body.
I worry because now we have
another thing to hide.
I worry.
How will we ever move a wounded nest?
Ms. Martinez calls us
into a circle at the reading carpet
and Principal Brown is there too
and so are some people
in fancy clothes
called social workers.
It turns out ICE stands for
Immigration and Customs Enforcement.
They are the ones doing “round-ups”
collecting birds in cages
clipping their wings
and sending them back
to where they were born.
Ms. Martinez encourages us
to make a picture poem
or talk if we feel like it
or cry if that’s what
turns inside us
scared tears
worried tears
questioning tears
crane tears
and we do.
They give us instructions:
Make a family plan
in case someone in your
family is rounded up
in a work raid.
There is no comfort in
what the fancy clothes say.
When Pepe raises his hand
to ask, What about learning math today?
Ms. Martinez looks at him
with eyes so heavy they looked closed.
We are learning about one another.
About the hurt in our hearts.
Sometimes, that is the most
important thing to learn.
I reach into my chest and softly
touch Papi’s pillowcase square
that now begins to smell more
lik
e my feathers
than his.
I want to go home
and put his pillowcase
in a jar
so I can save the smell of Papi
until I can
see him again.
I wish I knew
what Mami is going to do.
Will she make a plan for us?
Will we have to wait
all those years
or will we go
find him
hiding
in the
mountain?
I decide to cut half
of Papi’s pillowcase
and put it in a jar.
The other half I leave
on the pillow where
I now sleep with Mami
who is so sick
she can’t take care of
the rosy-cheeked twins
this week.
Mami looks at the app
on her phone that tells
her how much money
we have in the bank.
Our money is running out, she says.
She sings me a song
about a paraíso
with her sweet voice
before bed.
She cries into her
own pillow when
she thinks I am
asleep.
We finally hear from Papi!
Mami’s hand shakes
so she hits speaker, sets it down
for both of us to hear.
I had to stay away
from the mountain, mi vida.
Se corre mucho peligro allí.
It is too dangerous there.
His voice is crashing
and crumbling
through the phone.
I’m in the big city, Guadalajara.
Are you okay, Papi?
I’m with other cranes with broken wings
but we help one another.
He says he is sleeping on the street
and looking for work
scraped together enough
just to make this call.
I want to know if he has a pillow.
He tells me,
It’s okay, Betita.
I make one with my jacket.
I tell him about my pillow jar
and how I carry him everywhere.
He tells us about
his own secret money tin can
tucked in his cool gray toolbox
with money meant to surprise
Mami with a car.
Mami cries and promises
to put all of it in the bank
and send him some
so he can stop sleeping
on the street and so we
can come find him.
When Mami tells him
about the egg
she has in her nest
he cries too.
You’ve given me medicine
to heal what’s broken in me.
Papi tells us he loves us
and says before he hangs up,
No matter how we struggle,
remember to keep life sweet.
For the first time
in the two weeks
since they caged
my papi crane
I smile.
The next time
we speak
Papi’s got
his own phone!
Papi and Mami
decide
it is best
for Mami
and the egg
and me
to stay until
it hatches
and grows a little.
Mami has lost
two babies before.
They worry this one
might get lost too.
Then, we can be
with Papi again.
Together.
We make a plan with Diana
like Ms. Martinez and
Principal Brown said
in case
ICE ever
takes Mami at work
and I am
left alone.
We make a box
of our treasures,
a cajita for Diana
to keep safe.
Mami calls our box
proof.
Proof of what? I ask.
That we exist and
that we are good.
Mami shows me
and explains so I know too:
our petition paperwork
photos of us
Abuelita Lola’s phone number
our bank card
bills
medical records
our filed taxes
pictures of what the mean men did to your Tío Pedro
you are not allowed to see
and
this flash drive with
a digital copy of it all.
I add to the box of treasures
- the picture poem Papi never saw
- two jars:
Papi’s pillow jar
and a new pillow jar
I made
from Mami’s cut pillowcase.
Tío Juan and Tía Raquel
are on alert.
Diana now has keys.
She knows where
to find this cajita de tesoros
if the worst
ever happens.
Papi says he got the money
Mami sent him
I’m not sleeping
on the street anymore!
I have my own pillow too
but my wings are still
a little bit injured.
When I cry into
the phone he says,
¡Escríbeme, Betita!
Write to tell me
how your day went—good or bad
or how good the chocolate milk is
or how to spell your favorite words
or how big the egg is getting, okei?
But leave your sadness there.
Remember la dulzura.
I nod but he doesn’t see me
through the phone.
¿Okei, mi Betita?
I will, Papi.
I’ll send you
crane poems
every time
I want to
fly with you.
The first one I send him:
I draw
Mami and Papi’s bed
with smiley faces.
I write
I sleep on your smiling pillow
half of its case
is missing like front teeth.
Betita-October 9
I count six months till the egg
is supposed to hatch.
April.
Too long to wait to see Papi.
Maybe Papi will make his way
back to us before then?
Mami tells me,
Papi is looking for a job as an agrónomo.
A what?
A plant and soil scientist.
But Papi’s a builder and a dishwasher, not a scientist?
That is what he was before we left Mexico.
He’s interviewing for a job on an agave farm.
Is it far away from the mountain?
Yes, Betita.
No one knows who he is there.
Papi’s hammers won’t
be needed on the farm.
I wonder what other
superpowers
my papi has
that I’ve never known?
Mami is back with the twins.
She tells me she sings to them
again
like she used to do with me
like she used to do
when she was a teacher
in Mexico.
We teach through song
because it makes learning fun and easier.
Who doesn’t like a song?
It’s true.
Mami learned the English
she knows by singing
pop songs on the radio.
She taught me
my colors
my shapes
my numbers
and multiplication
in Spanish
just that way
with her songs.
I’ve stuck into my memory
the address to the farm
where Papi lives now
because I mail him
the picture poems
I promised
to keep life sweet.
I make them during aftercare
when I expect him
to walk in
smile at me
reach out his
arms like ramps
ready to lift me up
but it is Diana
I see each day now.
I draw a heart
with wings
in the clouds
and the East LA
blue sky
with the words,
Quiero volar
en el cielo azul
contigo, Papi.
Betita-November 7
I draw a huge brown nest
with big eyes and long eyelashes
like Mami’s
holding a tiny egg
and me sitting
crisscross applesauce
beside it
like I’m meditating
holding his pillow jar
in my hands
with the words:
I wait
for the
baby crane
to arrive
and dream
to see you again.
Betita-December 12
On a Saturday morning without Papi
Mami and I walk through
our vecindad to catch the bus
to the community clinic
for her checkup
with Sandra, the nurse midwife.
Then to church.
I practice flapping my feathers
while I trot to keep up to Mami.
The elotero walks fast
past us too, the bells of
his cart chiming into
our steps.
But we stop him
to buy an elote on a stick
dripping in mayo,
cheese, and chile.
Señoras wash and sweep
their concrete porches
yell at kids
to move their broken bikes
talk to one another
over their iron fences
hold their arms
in a fold above their panzas.
An old man in a vaquero hat
rides a bike with a plastic crate
strapped to his handlebars
holding a real live chicken.