At Ten, My Father Wins an Eating Contest

I’m a grown ass woman,
but my father still scolds me

when I don’t finish my whole
bowl of rice at dinner, and Dad,

I’ll never be that good little
Chinese daughter of your dreams,

with the world’s softest voice
and a wardrobe filled with floral

dresses and ladylike silhouettes,
and yes, I flash people in my short

skirts and crop tops, and I hate
wearing a whole lot of clothes,

because it’s the child within,
and I’ll never be that good little

Chinese daughter of your dreams,
or what you call a “love girl,”

because you forgot the “-ly”
of “lovely,” but that’s okay,

because we should all love
our girls and I know you love me

just the way I am, but you hate
when I leave even one grain

of rice in the bowl, because
I was raised on rice, but you craved

rice as a boy with nothing to eat
that you chowed down eight bowls

in an eating contest back
in Hong Kong in the sixties,

climbing down your window
one day, saying goodbye to your

pet goose—you ran down the road
and into a circus tent, and I know

all this sounds like a movie,
and I know that everyone, everyone

thinks their father in his boyhood
is a movie character, but my father,

the almost-orphan-boy sat in a row
with seven other boys that day

eating and eating and eating,
because it’s called a free meal

when you grow up poor, used to
eating three-day-old bread,

and of course, you won, Dad,
of course, you did, and I’ll always

love your stories of Nathan Road,
quiet on Christmas Eve,

and you’d catch a movie all alone,
your Kowloon of yesteryear,

and Dad, I’ll never, never
be that good little Chinese daughter

of your dreams, and I’m a grown
ass woman, but you’re right,

​I really should be finishing
my whole bowl of rice right now.