Ammā doesn’t have words like “pride”
or “trans” or “coming out”. English is not her first

or second or third language.
But I send the link anyway, as requested.

I imagine the next day. Ammā is perched on the doormat,
greasing her heels with Tiger Balm Red.

She rolls two pairs of socks over her feet,
wiggling her toes to attention.

The new trainers she bought are unstuffed,
waiting. She steps into them, right, then left,

careful as a toddler on wet tile.
All week she peels and soaks and tēykkiṟatu,

anticipating my hunger, her feet moulding
the trainers’ stubborn edges as she works.

When I arrive for dinner, she is massaging
her yellow-callused sole, little toe pink as a newborn.

She stands and hands me a ribboned box:
This for you, kunju. Be careful. Run well.