Remember:
we weren't all born with dreams like yours.

Back home, when I walked down the street, I had to keep watch for
baseball bats
and shrapnel daggers
out of the corners of my eyes.
And when I got home, I ate
bread crumbs
and peanut butter
and went to bed empty and scared.
And in the morning I went to look for work, but I wouldn't get work.
Just saliva
in my eyes.

I dreamt of a home that was
better.
I dreamt of eating my share,
working for a wage,
not having to keep watch out of the corners of my eyes.

You say you want to be an artist.
That you dream of secret fame
of awed faces
and huddled minor masses.
You dream of creating things
and making men cry
because yes, this is beautiful.

All right! Dream.

Just remember
how I dreamt of filling my emptiness.
How I worked, sweated, bled.
To rise up
and grasp my dream.
To earn those seeds
to plant in the family's dreamscape.

And remember
how I tended them
for your mother, and for you
so those seeds would grow, and bear fruit
for you
so you could dream things
I didn't know could be dreamt.

I don't mean you owe me anything
or you shouldn't take things for granted
or I envy you
or
Just
remember.

Learn more about this author, Nathan Goldman.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.

---

Add your voice

Know something about Poetry: Immigration?
We want to hear your view. Write now!