My Father Requires Translation

By Atreyee Gupta

I stammer. I hesitate. My father who spoke in complete sentencesrequires translation.“What’d he
say?” I’ve heardso oftenI believe even I cannotunderstand him.
I decipher his pauses,his gestures, in errant tomato tendrilsneedling sloped stakes.I unravel
secrets spooled into the Fuji’s whorled barkof his wherefore and why.
I decode his silences
from fervid morning glorychewing the chain linkperimeter.
 
He never confined rampant jasmineto scaffolding,never parted pigweed from begonia,beetles
burgledhis persimmon and birds burst his apricot.
Still — he woke at four each morning,fingers scarring soil so roots could write their story.
 
But, just when I thinkI know his meaning, petioles tangle the plot, grapevines tonguingscarlet
beads to taste their sweetness,bees patriarchal over purple cups,and I lose him againin a dawn of
saplings,confiding seeds waiting eruption.

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Atreyee Gupta has been published in numerous venues, such as Apparition Lit, Arc Poetry, Bacopa Literary Review, Fireside, Jaggery, and Solarpunk. Atreyee is the creator of Bespoke Traveler (www.bespoketraveler.com), a digital alcove for curious explorers.