Saying I love you in my mother tongue is impossible. My mother never loved me in words. She gave up a continent for me, its contents tradedfor a feathered hope of better. For me, she went to scrub the floors in houses we could not afford, came home and scrubbed our floors, as well, then shopped, and cooked, and mended, and then scrubbed some more. The days all slipped into the slit between the scrubbing and the cooking,like errant peas dried in the gapbetween the cupboard and the stove, and there was never time for words. So now, my mother tongue sticks in my throat like the smell of bleachand cumin. I've had to learn three other languages just to find words to talk of love, and even so, sometimes I'll just offer to hem your trousers.————————————–Ella B. Winters called us from England, UK.voicemailpoems.org/submit/facebook.com/voicemailpoemsx.com/voicemailpoemsbsky.app/profile/voicemailpoems.bsky.socialinstagram.com/voicemailpoems