I bought a winter coat.

It was thick, ugly, the colour of concrete,

perfect for disappearing.

I learned how to drink tea with milk.

I learned how to look away

when people stared too long.

I learned how to find the quietest seat on the bus,

how to nod when the driver said, Cheers, love,

even though I did not know what he was thanking me for.

I watched the daffodils break through the frozen ground,

their yellow heads trembling with effort.

I thought, maybe this is survival too,

blooming where you were never meant to grow.

I stopped writing my real name on forms.

I started dreaming in two languages.

I grew roots in the shallowest soil.

I stayed.

I stayed even when I thought I had forgotten how.