Karis Lee
MOTHER’S DAY PHONE CALL
Umma, this is not a story
of diaspora
but of the first girl
to touch the back of my neck
and think to do so
the shadow of her fingertips
our mouths open and deliberate
the nights i dream of being
five and falling off my bike
your hands kiss my skinned knees
you bury my body waist deep in dirt
and water me into root
in the morning
i call to tell you i want
to be all the black keys on your piano
when i was little i thought
black keys couldn’t be touched
the ajumma at the hair salon says
i should be happy i was born here
in america i am beautiful
in korea i am too dark
to be pretty
and in that country
no boy
would ever want me
i imagine myself
in an alternate city
face sheathed
in whitening cream
and wonder if i would still call home
just to hear you
say my name