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I come from a country so far away

that you may have visited only in your dreams.

My face does not bear the pale color of my palms.

I don’t speak your language at home.

I don’t even sound like you.

If you come to my house, you’ll see my family:

my mother in a sari,

my father wearing a sacred thread around his body,

and me, eating a plate of spicy biryani

instead of a burger or pizza

at the dinner table.

If you, for a moment, shed your filter,

you will also see my pockets filled with Tootsie Rolls,

waiting to be shared with you.