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Love born in the city of Michoacán,  

Known as the soul of Mexico,  

Dreaming of a better life,  

A desire for a big family,  

Squeezed tightly into four rooms.  

Roots left in Mexico,  

Left my own family behind;  

In the projects, we built a home,  

Ten children, laughter echoing in small spaces.  

Tradition was every meal shared,  

Recipes are our legacy,  

Each bite a piece of history.  

It’s my job to br

Windows to generations past,  

Language barriers with memories that last.  

I see you, and I can barely see me,  

Though I feel you are family.  

In the blink of innocence,  

I wish I could tell you more—  

Homemade tortillas,  

Made from my hands, now yours.  

You are Mexican American,  

But Mexican first;  

We put our family first,  

Rosaries from my home—  

You are never alone

Whispers of ancestors guide our steps;  

We celebrate holidays in the food we prep.  

I came to be part of so much more,  

Not to a country that closes the door.  

Sadness lingers for the love unreturned,  

But I embrace my culture, rich in hues,  

Standing firmly on the ground,  

In my huaraches, I choose.