I was once told I was meant to be buried
in millions of snowflakes
and to quake against the wind,
meant to be raised by forests
of the temperate kind,
meant to clutch a rosary
while uttering
murmurations in fear.
These are lies; I am
meant to pray to Buddha as
I kneel under the banyan grove
we worship, I am meant to taste salt
between black teeth as I chew betel nut
among longshore waves. Simply, I am
meant to sweat. Without complication,
I am meant to be brown.

My parents were told they were meant for
walking on fields of grass blanketing
land mines and layers of congealed
blood, meant to decompose
in camps on Malaysian
islands until they could be
saved
by the Great Whites.
They were told they were
meant for living in—wasting
in housing projects, their áo dài
hung out to dry on the clothesline
only to be set afire by the neighbors.
To save their only clothes, they had to
stomp the flames with burning feet.

My grandparents were told they were
meant for imprisonment, seven years of separation
across the Pacific, stitching hems in California’s
factories, meant to open stained envelopes
sealing inside them angry, vibrating
bees. They were told they were
meant to be pushed against
hot concrete on the
street they call their own,
to yearn for a homeland that no
longer exists, and to never feel true freedom
in the country that stole their lives.

Despite what we were told, I know we are meant to live
through winters of war, see sacred blossoms unravel
come spring, and present them, in bouquets of
yellow-gold, to our beloveds.
Simply,
we remain.
Without complication,
we find home in one another.