My father calls and doesn’t know what to say. I wish I could express to him everything in my mind but I only know how to say it one way. The way that he knows very little of, the language of his bosses, of a country that doesn’t want him, of a language that is seen as superior to his. When I speak he listens; in his mind imagining what crazy idea I have contrived. Had I grown up in the land we call home, my father and I would bond over the words that sway off our tongues to a song we both know. My father calls and I speak what we both know. We no longer feel far away and he doesn’t have to feel embarssed over what he cannot say.