But really, my dad's a quiet man and he appreciates the silence.
Whenever I'd speak to him in English, he always returns the foreign favor.
See, for him, speaking Japanese is like a walk in the park.
I imagine speaking English is like climbing a barbed wire fence.

See, my father's accent is bumpy, like the conversation between airplane tires and American concrete that welcomed his arrival to the United States:
His pronunciation has trouble landing. His tongue knows turbulence.

See, my father is a chef. He'll add extra syllables to his sentences like seasoning, something that tastes better in his mouth.
If I were complaining about hunger, he'll tell me to "Go get the cheese baga to Baga King.”

My father’s accent can be an asshole.
Because my father’s accent ain’t smooth like my birth certificate.
It’s the rough edges around my family’s grave.
It’s the crease that creates the wings on a paper crane.

You see, my father’s accent is like a hole in a Japanese internment camp fence, it’s an escape route to his culture.

His accent is thick, and his words sticked together like the vinegar rice on his working hands.
He spent more time cooking for people than working on his speech, because he knew standard English wasn’t going to feed his children.
The recipe is his way of talking to Americans, it’s how people understand what his heart is trying to say.

You see, the accent, the accent is the mark of an immigrant.
It’s a ruler with mile-long increments that measure the distance away from home.
See, maybe Asians are known to be good at math because it’s the only homework our parents can help us with.
Or maybe I’m being defensive because I am afraid that my rusty Japanese is the broken chain link that can’t hold my lineage together.
I am afraid
Of passing down my lack of language to my children and their grandpa’s accent will sound more foreigner than family.

I am selfish
Writing poems, and poems, and poems about Japan
When my name is the only word I know how to write
In Japanese.