Dear Spanish

For kicking you in the shin in kindergarten
this is what I get: how to say goodbye
to my grandfather on the telephone

an hour before a plane shuttles him to Chile.
Ninety-seven and two heart attacks, wanting
only to live out his days on the brown soil

of a familiar terrain. Your lingo blooms
on his tongue. My tongue hobbles
around my mouth, dragging its bag of English.

Bless my voice so it knows more than
estoy muy tristo and ciao abuelito. Bless it
so I could touch him with your language

and erase the seven flat states that keep me
from seeing once more the butterscotch
of his face. Now the static of a bad connection,

my tongue leaning on a tooth. Bless it before
the sky pulls him south, before we hang up.
We hang up. The empty kitchen hums

with the soundtrack of my blood running
in my ears, a language built on silence
where every word is swallowed instead of said.