With broad cheeks sun spotted like dripped caramel,

Bà ngoại read your skin,

Told you the mole at the base of your neck

Meant watch your back;

The one under your eye

Promised you could see;

And the one on your butt

Made her laugh.

I’ll tell you what that means when you’re older,

She laughed

And my mother shushed her,

Both waving hands at each other until

Bà ngoại took her eyebrow pencil and mimed drawing a mole

On my pussy, she wheezed, 

Rocking back into each laugh, 

Her hand on her crotch. 

Like raindrops on sand,

Your skin cheetahs as hers did,

And each new one connects you to her

Long after her skin waxens from embalming fluid.  

One twilights on the tip of your nose,

The shadow of the zit that bulged and popped and pussed 

From your mother’s nose when she started high school in America,

A target on an even bigger target, she told you,

And clothespinned yours

To prevent one pain with another. 

You read about children’s birthmarks and moles 

That persist as scars from past lives

And wonder how that works 

When your mother is still alive.

Your auntie thinks you’re dirty.

Before you can finish “hello,”

Her thumb is rubbing the tip of your nose flat

And you turn away from her manicured hands

And treated face.

“I’ll go to the skin doctor,” I tell her.

“The dermatologist,” she corrects. 

Your mother blames your dad 

For not putting sunscreen on you during your weekends with him,

Which is one of her ways of denying you’re brown, 

Or yellow,

Or white,

Depending. 

Your dad points to divots from scalpels and chemo creams

On the pool of throat where his collarbones meet

And on his arms that leather the way Norwegian skin does in California surf.

He stares at your nose: 

“You’ve got to get that checked out... 

I had a friend die from that,” 

Which is what he says about everything,

Even though he’d let me burn and blister,

Returning me to my mom:

“She’s so dark. You ruin her!”

At the dermatologist, 

The paper gown does not protect

Your skin from shrinking and bumping like a featherless duck’s

Under air conditioning and surgery-bright lights.

You both hesitate with surprise 

When the doctor enters and is a young Asian American woman

With more freckles than you. 

Once you register each other’s sameness,

She doesn’t look at you in the eye again

But her fingers and flashlight 

Inch across your skin.  

It’s been so long since your skin’s been read like this

With such close attention,

But this time, no laughter. 

As her fingers part your hair and the folds in your belly,

You grow eager for a diagnosis,

Something visible to heal,

Or one of your young death fantasies come to fruition. 

“You’re fine,” she says 

In a hurry to the next old white person 

In the waiting room. 

Okay, bà ngoại,

After you’re done laughing,

Read me what happens next.