You traded our Mother's nest for the rich spit
that watered your seeds, only to sprout Sam's lies:
We need YOU to believe in meritocracy. So
you picked up a 9 to 5 and an All-American guise.
Still, you rest your heavy eyes to not be bothered by
the persimmon tree rustling in the warm wind
or the little girl playing off key. Your voice
comes ringing "Halika dito!" summoning me
to a table covered in tax paper placemats
and luxuries of the American dream: Spam,
clothes, and candy packed carefully to be sent
home to the deserted archipelago. I never know why
you give so much or why you played the lottery.
I only know that you loved enough to leave.
