Poem: Father’s Inheritance

Some are born into houses with wide porches,

white curtains breathing in the soft hush of morning,

oak trees that have stood for generations.

They inherit silver spoons,

old letters tucked inside cedar chests,

maps of the land their fathers never lost.

Their names are spoken with ease,

with certainty, with belonging.

Their history is written in ink that does not fade,

their future paved with roads

they did not have to build.

I was not born into such things.

I inherited hands that wake before the sun,

that know labor before rest,

that learned how to make do,

how to make less into enough.

I inherited my mother’s hushed prayers

woven into the scent of boiling rice,

the way she folded longing into neat corners,

the way she whispered be good, anak

as if goodness alone could save us.

I inherited my father’s silence,

his calloused fingers tracing old scars,

the way he stood in the doorway some nights,

looking out at a land that never learned his name,

a country that only saw his labor,

never his grief.

Some inherit keys to a house;

I inherited the stories of those

who had to leave theirs behind.

Some inherit a name that opens doors;

I inherited the weight of proving I belong.

But I did not come here to carry only sorrow.

I did not come here to be only the wound.

Yes, the past breathes in my bones,

the echoes of my ancestors hum beneath my skin.

But I also carry the sunlight that kissed their backs,

the salt of the sea they crossed,

the laughter that survived in spite of it all.

I am not only what was taken.

I am what remains.

And I will not pass down their suffering

like an heirloom of sorrow.

I will break the lineage of silence,

turn exile into belonging,

turn hunger into harvest,

turn anger into love.

This is my inheritance—

not just the burden of history,

but the power to transform it.

I am the ancestor who will remember,

but I am also the ancestor who will set us free.