I come from late nights at Grandma’s,
the yellow one,
I color coded them by their hair.

I was born with the rose bush
outside the kitchen window,
the corner tree that still grows,
in honor of me,
first grandchild on either side.

I'm from Irish bedtime songs and chapped hands,
      making art in Carol’s kitchen
      writing for hours
      in Grandpa’s basement.
I'm from the memories in Tom Walsh the III’s
                    very dense, wise mind.
I told him he should write a book,
                    he laughed, and declined,
                    so I started it for him.

I remember drinking the last drop of coffee
        in my father’s cup
        before all my memories of him turned black.

I'm from my grandpa’s succession
                    of Law and Order,
      from learning how to think for yourself,
      and having to learn the difference between fear
      and respect.

The memories of where I’m from
are folded between chopped down trees
with lines on them,

I am the fruit of a grafted tree,
bruised from falling in my sleep.