You sit quietly on my kitchen window
armed with pots, pans and prickly cacti.
Your body made of red and white porcelain
glitters in the amber afternoon sun.
Your raised hand moves back and forth,
your charming smile frozen in time.
You cheer up my mood every morning
against England’s grey and gloomy sky.
You arrived as a birthday present.
I don’t know what that says of me.
You remind me of the firecrackers and spring couplets
that celebrate the lunar new year in Chinatown,
of the Asian communities who live in the diaspora,
who work hard to survive in a new land.
Your sisters and brothers work diligently,
performing their duties in shops and restaurants,
blessing every Asian family to thrive and prosper,
despite the Asians Out graffiti on the walls.
I used to laugh at you for being cheap and naff.
Now I am laughing with you.