You always made sure to remind me tattoos
were not accepted
under your terracotta roof,
to never draw on el templo de Dios– on the
beautiful, dark
brown skin He gave me.
One day, I felt brave and let my friend draw
on my arm
speckled with prepubescent hairs.
His warm hands pressed against my body
as he added
finishing touches to his art. I
was his art, my body his canvas. A large
flower wrapped itself
around my elbow and
my chest, still bare and clean. When you
came home from
work that day and saw the
flower choking my body, you yelled y pa que
chingados estás dibujando
en tu cuerpo and
gave me my very first tattoo. Your hand, cold
but soft, tried to
bruise my skin. But instead of
turning red it turned a darker brown– not quite
ink-black but no
longer the cinnamon skin you
say God blessed me with. The temple you told
me to worship and
take care of. I tried to explain
how it wasn’t me who drew the flower, but when I
said it was a boy who
touched my body with his
pen you went ahead and gave me my second tattoo,
right above my first,
across my left cheek. Amá, I
cried. Mom, ¡I'm sorry! My eyes swelling– I wasn’t sure
if from your words or
from your hand. You stomped out
of the restroom carrying a bottle of 95% isopropyl
rubbing alcohol and
threw it to me with the towel
we use to dry our dog off. Quítate eso ahorita. No
puedo creer que un niño
te estaba tocando. Tu
cuerpo. I stood over the sink, rubbing my body with the
alcohol and rinsing it
off with my tears as you watched.
But you and I both know that it’s much more
painful to remove a tattoo than
it is to get one.