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?