My Father Does Not Say "I Love You" & gentrified ube by l.m.b.f
gentrified ube by l.m.b.f.
one day i’ll understand
why gentrified ube is made.
it was pale purple
and tasted like the original
but fell just a little bit short.
but still i chose to settle for its lack of flavor
cause it reminded me of something familiar.
one day i’ll understand
why gentrified ube is made.
real ube is deep purple
and tastes of mang juan’s dirty ice cream
by the church, mixing with the smell of white jasmines as children
scamper down the street
in broken slippers. i remember
when i was one of those children,
stumbling against the rocky pavement
cause i would never settle
for sitting out tumbang preso
when i knew i could have a better time.
one day i’ll understand why
gentrified ube is made.
real ube reminds me of fiestas and lively conversation,
like the ones we used to have. we’d talk about
our lives and what we’d hope to change, but also what we loved.
those were the days i loved, when
i refused to settle for anything less
than love. now you might be back but every word exchanged
feels like gentrified ube.
one day i’ll
understand why gentrified ube is made.
why we settle for a lack of something
because it reminds us of something familiar.
why i settle for pleasantries with you
when my past self wouldn’t
have put up with that.
why i settle for having you at a distance
knowing there’s no chance i’ll ever get
to hold you at all.
My Father Does Not Say “I Love You” by l.m.b.f.
my father does not say i love you,
but drives to the other side of town
so i can eat rice after two weeks
of being stranded in the Midwest.
my father does not say i love you,
but asks if i have eaten. kumain ka lang,
he prods me, and i know he means to eat so that your belly may be
full even if your heart is not.
my father does not say i love you,
but presses two bags of dried mangoes
into my hands so that my friends,
who have never set foot into my home,
may know that life with me
is both tart and sweet
like the hugs he awkwardly gives me
before i have to leave.
my father does not say i love you,
nor does he ask me what is wrong with me,
but hands me the ladle to the nilagang baka
and offers to peel the shrimp
after remembering i no longer eat beef.
i know this is his attempt to peel back the layers of four years of absence. because
nilaga is my favorite meal from childhood
and that was the last time i felt like i could tell him anything.
my father does not say i love you,
but asks me if i have eaten. kumain ka lang,
he prods me, and i know he means to eat so
your belly may be full even when your heart is not.
i can’t remember the last time my father said i love you,
but i remember every meal he’s cooked for me.
and maybe one day that will be enough.