That I was the only forth grader in my
Bronx elementary school to own a
show n’tell passport,
(where did I think I was going? Brooklyn?)
is a tale rooted in my Ukrainian Grandpas
bloodshot eyes and vodkaed slur,
angry at my Father,
who forgot to renew his own,
and in his rage, Grandpa demanded whether or not
“Your son, at least, has his own”.
To which my Father grudged,
“No.”

Bombardments insued.

“Don’t you remember anything!!??
You fought them!
Did you forget what they did??!!”

Dad replied, “Oh, Pop. This is America.”

Grandpa yells,”So what?”

Dad yells, “For Christs sake.
I married a Christian, remember?
Ken’s not a Jew!”

Grandpa screams, “So what!”

Dad says, “That could never happen here.”

Then a silence
rich in sorrow,
Grandpa stares.
He whispers,
“That’s what they said.”

And that’s how I got my passport.