My Grandfather speaks rapid Cantonese to me.
He’s telling me what he wants from McDonalds.
The kid behind the counter rolls his eyes at this.
The woman behind us in line says “Speak English” under her breathe.

The grip my Grandfather has on my arm tightens.
My Grandfather can speak English.
He can understand English.
He can write English.

But he came when he was in his twenties, and he has an accent
that will never leave.
And when he speaks English
he hears-
“How long have you been here?”
“Can you repeat that again?”
“I don’t understand you.”

And it humiliates him.
This man who left his family,
who left his life to make a better one.
The bravest man I know
is embarrassed of his accent.

And in McDonalds,
the man who crossed the pacific
in a freight boat with no papers
and no one he knew in this country,
bows his head in shame.