Bubbie

Bubbie, fat grandmother o' mine,
I am only eleven.

I do not want to watch
Everybody Loves Raymond.

I do not want to be pretty.
Please stop giving me purses.

I do not want to call you.
I have nothing to say.

I do not want to talk about Brooklyn.

I want to go into your bathroom for a hour
and pretend my fingers are alive
and run them over the white and green tile.

I want to try every perfume you have positioned
upon the white doily on the wooden dresser in your bedroom.

I do want to sit on your fleshy lap
but I am wary, because I do not want you to grip my wrist so hard,
and attack my neck with your smeared and mushy mouth.

I liked the way your lips blot on tissue.
I want to use your lipstick
but again, I do not want to be pretty, Bubbie.

When you, a seventy year old elephant, took me to the Statue of Liberty
on January 1st, 9 degrees Fahrenheit,
you insisted I jam my hands into your armpits, to keep warm.
Thank you. I was so small and pink.

I'm sorry it took me so long to want to be pretty.
I didn't care. You cared so much that you yelled.
But it didn't work. I am pretty now sometimes.
I see now that it would have been nice to have been alive
and been pretty together, I see now, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Bubbie.