I’m from cartoons
and hair clips,
dog leashes and recycled trash bags.
Crumpled tightly; a bag within a bag.
I am from wide green lawns
where I cartwheeled on.
I come from arguments with
my brother and mother Switzerland.
I’m from hot summers and foot rubs,
smelly and soft.
Books and French vanilla creamer.
I don’t come from a rabbit hole,
only Bugs Bunny and
“What’s up Doc?”
I’m from Oz and ruby slippers,
weird socks and boxing gloves.
I’m from the mailman,
cards and cash,
delivered in a dirty white satchel
from my grandma and her excessive kisses
that smell like cigarettes.
Sent from generations of women
who built me, colored me,
and stayed within the lines.
I come from jump rope competitions,
challenged to cross a line.