What is the American Dream?
And what does it even mean?
Is it for the men they deem worthy to cross the border?
Or the men who carry the weight of their families on their shoulder?
Is it for the man with a loose seam in his hat reaping the soil?
Or the man in the sun’s gleam with callused hands harboring remnants of oil.

Is it my Abuelito with leathered cheeks sketched with lines from the sun,
The man who collected coins from cans he corralled after a day’s work was done.
Mi Abuelito, sick and tired, should be retired.
Sweetness of a sugar cane on his tongue, while there are growths in his lungs.
Festering from the fumes, that his industrial body has consumed.
Help, he can’t breathe, choking on the American dream.

If it’s not for the men eager to cross the border,
Or the men who carry the weight of their citizenship on their shoulder,
Maybe the hardworking man whose sweat from the brow is his only tear.
And if not them, am I even near?
If it’s neither for the man with the unhinged seam,
What the hell is the American Dream?