I remember looking at my grandpa’s
tattoos as a boy of three or four.

One of a butterfly
Didn’t think it was effeminate. Still don’t.

Another of a Native princess donning her war bonnet.
Didn’t think it was race endangering. Still don’t.

I remember the last time I looked at him
in his sleeveless wife-beater shirt. His tattoos
looked long and sagging.

The butterfly resembled his long, old ears that heard
many things sad like his knuckles against my grandmother’s skin
beautiful like the beating of his tribal drum and songs of praise.

The native princesss wore a long, sad face
remembering her finer days of youthful beauty
long before botox-injections kept women young, but not beautiful.

I knew someday I’d get a tattoo, but I didn’t know what.
One day I got some money, and a man permanently painted my skin. I got one of panoramic flames underneath my forearm with
the word SAINTS
emblazoned in charcoal,
and I hope that one day
my tattoos will leave
a story of who I was
in memory.