Bad Mexican, Bad American

I like football, ketchup on my scrambled eggs.

My biggest sin, perhaps, is I speak English to my parents.

 

I’m a bad Mexican. Yet, I like carne asada over BBQ,

Latina women who speak Spanish in my ear.

 

I root for México in soccer. I’m a bad American, too.

I like Sunday morning rain. Winter holidays.

 

I’ve found solace in the jaded moon. Not everything is this,

Or that. I once spelled my name as “Joey.”

 

Was born in a racist nation. Not a troublemaker, just call it

Like I see it. My patriotism: red, white, and blue. I’ve got

 

Two tattoos on my chest: a Mexican flag, and American, too.

My children will likely speak less Spanish than me.

 

Does that make you happy? I’m trying to do better: leyendo

Poesía por la noche. Fusion is more than a cable channel in my barrio.

 

It was said before me, it will be said after: how you treat

Folks is all that matters to the dying question:

 

How do you want to be remembered?

Jose Hernandez Diaz

Jose Hernandez Diaz is a 2017 NEA Fellow. He is the author of The Fire Eater (Texas Review Press, 2020). His work appears in The American Poetry Review, Boulevard, Cincinnati Review, Georgia Review, Iowa Review, The Nation, Poetry, The Southern Review and in The Best American Nonrequired Reading. He has been a finalist for the Andrés Montoya Prize, the Colorado Prize, the Akron Prize, and The National Poetry Series. Currently, he is an Associate Editor at Frontier Poetry and an educator in Southeast Los Angeles County.