Your face is too long, oblong.
That is what my father told me.
You are too loud.
Uncle Connie, my drunk Uncle.
I was called that, my childhood nickname.
Because I was too loud.
You have a Mexican father.
You mother is Russian, Polish.
A Rocket Scientist.
A way to block out something I had said.
Something I had read in a book,
was spoken. In an "Uncle Connie" loudness.
My second toe, on both feet, is weird.
My parents came to visit.
None of these things were address.
Nothing that I feel about them being my parents
and where I am now.
They, from my perspective, are (in part) responsible for me.
Who I am, how I feel about myself, and what I have become.
That is probably a Rocket Scientist theory.