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The Mother Fucker Is Finally Dead


by Dulce Maria Menendez


Sunflower season is the same here 
as it is in Tuscany.  Every mid July
they start to bloom. Sometimes on
my birthday. 

The seeds start to sprout
as soon as the snow melts into
the rich soil of the midwest.

China grows their soy not too far 
from my house which was built
around the year of my mother's birth.

I was born in Cuba.
I am the only Cuban in my block.
In the neighborhood.

When I was living in California,
I would have to reconfirm to everyone
who asked if I was Italian, that no,
I am Cuban. This is what a Cuban
looks like I'd say back to them. I was
strong with my convictions. I never
had to do this in Miami.

I am Cuban. I'd tell them over and
over again which only lead to the 
next question. What is Cuba like?
I don't know, I'd tell them. I left
before I could remember.

Recently my DNA tests show I am 
not Cuban at all. I am ninety-four
percent European with sixty-four
percent Iberian, eleven percent
from Northern Europe and 
seventeen percent Italian.

The rest is three point five
percent Central-American
and the remaining from Africa.
Not an ounce of Cuban.

I am more Italian than I will
ever be Cuban and what DNA
flows through me decided that
I missed the sunflowers of Tuscany
more than the sugarcane fields 
of an island which is more foreign
than ever to me now that the mother 
fucker is finally dead. 

I don't have to carry the Cuban torch 
anymore for my father who didn't live 
long enough to see the mother fucker
who imprisoned him finally dead
or my mother who died in a nursing home
so far gone into her dementia that she forgot 
why we left in the first place.









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