I am from a townhouse on Calvert Street, 
where bees surround the wildflowers and an avalanche of mint, 
where paint-chipped bikes are strewn on the porch 
and you can smell the stew made of beets and radishes 
and love slow cooks on the stove.

I am from warm hugs and my grandmother’s perfume, 
endless scarves wrapped around my shoulders and 
overflowing the closets.

I am from fluffy mashed potatoes, 
from cool salad with fresh squeezed lemon,
from raw garlic burning my tongue.
I am from my brothers peppering freckles, 
(I could trace constellations across his button nose),
and my mother’s eyes always caught up in the sun, (her eyes are a storm on the sea).

I am from sun soaked skin and raspberries, red currants
in green cardboard, the whirring blender and sea foam froth smoothies.

I am from libraries, fingers running 
alongside the spines. I am the quiet 
comfort of a book,
from swash-buckling adventures, 
from a world filled with footnotes, 
from mysteries where you feel shivers as the detective works out the clues,
from flipping the pages in books too fast, just begging for a paper cut.

I am from the city, coffee shops and inky eyes and a practiced scowl,
from bright lights and calling a taxi and newspaper headlines.

I am from my home, my family, my friends,
I am from a sense of belonging
from my hope, my faith,
and my freedom-wrenched heart that will 
never forget the meaning of where I’m from.