Priscilla Lee

Poet & Writer

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Dim Sum & Then Some

At the Eight Immortals—where the Lee kids are known

to sprawl in front of dim sum carts, checking out

the shark fin dumplings & ham ha ngau yuk chow fun—

the owner prefers to seat us in the banquet room upstairs.

Grandma loves her grandchildren, doesn't want us to marry

& move out of state! The boys pat her head, sputtering

Chinglish & adjusting tones until they hit the mark.

On special occasions, when Canadian half-relatives visit,

second uncle's lanky second son, Ellison, tapes styrofoam

cups to his chest, piles waist-length hair on top of his head,

& grooves like a drag queen waitress in heat. If our blind

Grandpa were alive, his one blue eye would try to stare

down our antics. Last year I married & now I'm chewing

the fat at the grown-up table, talking about my 401K.

I miss the steamed bun fights, the 11-kid stadium wave

around our table, & the puppet show—chicken & duck heads

stuck on chopsticks, pecking at each other, their pink napkin

dresses trailing in the soy sauce.