Sonnet XXVIII: On Father’s Day

On Father’s Day, we eat crabs for dinner,
and I think about being four-years-old
dreading trips to the seafood market.
I’d hold my dad’s hand, let him protect me
from the eels popping their heads out the tank,
how I’d get ice cream with my uncle
at the same market: mango for him,
strawberry for me, and I’d hate him
for those few seconds he got his first,
how after school, Grandpa picked me up
and took me to dollar stores, flea markets,
mini markets, buying me shrimp crackers,
snowman paintings, watches that needed fixing—
This is my Chinatown, technicolor and gone.