red handwoven rug

Handwoven Red Afghan Rug

my scabbed knees pattern the red handwoven rug
my grandfather brought my mother 
in ‘09
a piece of home
              he smiles in memory
my scabbed knees bleed often
i think my mother 
              is always scrubbing
worn damp cloth in her hand 
kneading the rug back and forth 
wringing the red in a blue bucket
the scolding is a 
song she sings
              I am always hurting myself at recess
              the scabs rip off. my mother begins again 
scrubbing me off her red rug, off her piece of home.
my father has done it all. flipped pizzas, drove cabs, 
learned of vienna beef and burgers and hot dogs and 
the worst of customers – serving the refugee dream in a platter
to taxpayers responsible –
               my father is a young boy
               when he doubles over in laughter
clutching his belly
as Sanford & Son plays on MeTV. I rest my head of curls
on his ankle
clutching his leg – whining about his absence at report card pickup
I am an angry child, loved by my father
in all his ages
as he serves the refugee dream, while buying us matching socks and 
                 cool lunch boxes

Sanford and Son, an American sitcom television series, airs on MeTV

I am twenty three years old,
ten years older than my father when he lost his.
most nights, I find him in the corners of our living room
on a red rug, raising his hands in surrender
he tucks his legs under, a fetal position,
I hope god is holding him in all the ways he needed 
to be held 
when he was thirteen.

tonight, my father cradles a warm mug in calloused palms
he blinks in concentration at our red rug
a piece of home
as his daughter makes the journey
back to a land, where he was only ever a little boy. before he served the refugee dream–
we both blink at the red handwoven rug. I clutch his worn hands 
telling him to let me go
from his calloused palms. And my father raises his hands,
surrendering me to god.

Muslim at Prayer, by Charles Bargue (French, 1826-1883)