My dad is a liar. “Did you eat yet,” I asked. “Yeah,” he would reply, always. Without hesitance, my brother and I ate the remaining food. My dad is a liar. “Can you buy me this shoe,” I requested “We don’t have extra money,” he states. That Christmas night, the shoe wound up in my room. My dad is a liar. “Eat the birthday cake with me,” I insisted. Sure, he told me off. Night fall, I hear the front door silently opened. I peeked out my room, there he stood. “It’s not twelve yet,” he said “Happy Birthday” My dad is a liar. Although I knew, I handed him the graduation ticket. That day, I waited and waited. Heads stoop so low As my high heel make its way home. Click clack click clack click clack Night falls, my dad returns, fatigued It’s to be expected, working day and night for the family It’s the way of an immigrant. He handed me a small purple box. I opened, light glimmered A small, silver bracelet “Congratulations,” he mumbled I smile. A love that’s hard to comprehend; The gift conveying his feeling; The treasure, the monument I’m an immigrant, I’m a child, I’m my father’s daughter.

– Yulissa

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