Barrio to Barrio, Conchas y Churros En La Mano
Father’s hands had the chance
to learn how to roll out dough
and make conchas, cuernitos,
y cochinitos de pan.
He could have birthed a passion
for stirring flour, eggs, and water.
Instead of baking he wanted to sell
Mexican sweet bread and travel
barrio to barrio.
He was one of those dirty sun
burnt kids, hijo del lechero
yelling,
“¡Aquí vienen los churros!”
“¡Aquí vienen las conchas!”
When people dropped pesos
into his hands he was thrilled.
Sweat, blisters, dehydration
was the price he paid for not
having a father to support him,
and my grandmother.
He had a secret though
every time his bread
would fall from his cart
he would brush and lick
off the dirt from them.
Those pieces he would sell
to los viejos tradicionales
who would tell him,
“Aquí están tus pesos bastardo.”
They never knew every morning
they would eat conchas y churros
lamidos with their black coffee.
No one knew, until one day at 45
my father told me all about it, while
I was eating a vanilla concha, and he
was making coffee.
We both laughed
as he told me he would do it
all over if he could.