I’ve felt guilty for not speaking Spanish with you
when you came here: Oh, el niñito bien gringo se cree
ya ¿veá? You’ve never said that. You should’ve
 

when you picked me up from school. I pretended
not to know you. No inglish. I laughed with friends
when we called you wetback. At the apartment,

I went out to play “soccer” without explaining how
to change the channel to Univision. I don’t know
what was wrong with me then. Perdoname. Perhaps,

you don’t remember, perhaps, you’ve forgiven me.
We’ve never talked about this. Of those years, when
mom left, we don’t talk. Let’s go back to kindergarten

when you taught me this tongue twister: tengo una tía
cajonera que hace cajas y calajas y cajitas y cajones. Y al
tirar de los cordones salen cajas y calajas y cajitas y cajones.