When they charged me with possession of marijuana,
the Ann Arbor police sent the letter to my parents,
and my parents handed it to me, seal unbroken.
I lied about frat parties and underage drinking.
My dad was raised with rice wine at every meal
so he always wanted me to sip America on the rocks,
no chase of immigrant language.

When they declared no smoking under our roof
I climbed jutting chimney bricks and chained
duty-free cigarettes on slanted tiles while
straining to see the stars and milky dust.

I didn't want them hearing how hard I cough
or knowing the reasons I struggle to stay up.
Fearing a fall, unable to come down.

But I remind myself that parents are people, too.
They can still recall early adulthood and
international rates limiting unfinished conversations.

Now, we video chat my grandparents and they
gaze at my face, say my long hair looks messy
and I have gained too much weight. I can see
my grandfather, frail to hollow, opaque irises
no longer recognizing kin.