If you are the child of a refugee, you do not

sleep easily when they are crossing the sea

on small rafts and you know they can’t swim.

My father couldn’t swim either. He swam through

sorrow, though, and made it to the other side

on a ship, pitching his old clothes overboard

at landing, then tried to be happy, make a new life.

But something inside him was always paddling home,

clinging to anything that floated – a story, a food or face.

They are the bravest people on earth right now,

don’t dare look down on them. Each mind a universe

swirling as many details as yours, as much love

for a humble place. Now the shirt is torn,

the sea too wide for comfort, and nowhere

to receive a letter for a very long time.

And if we can reach out a hand, we better.