Two Completely Different Ways

I think you and I see Arabs in two completely different ways.
I have uncles and aunties who aren’t even my uncles or aunties,
but they call me love.
They give me nicknames,
and ask if I’ve eaten enough.
 
Even when my parents were miles away,
their calls came through, warm as sunrays,
checking if I’d eaten,
if I was okay.  
They’d stay on the line,
asked if my sleep felt like rest,  
if I’d dressed warm for the weather.
"How’s uni?", "how was that test?"
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And have you seen them bless the air when I sneeze?
Each phrase is a prayer on their tongue,  
a poem of my health and safety.  
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I’ve learned how to greet like them.
Every hello means something,
every goodbye is long. 
Every goodbye lingers at the door, and eases doubts.
"This life is short so come back, forget something in my house."
Their mouths are filled with poetry -
"May your road be lined with ease",
"may your nights be filled with peace".
It’s the softness they carry,
the gentleness of their hearts.
It’s the, "say hi to Mama and Baba for me",
"I’m sorry for your grandmother, she’ll live in your heart."
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We may see them differently,
but I want you to see the way they care.
I am a child of many hands.
I have been lifted by laughter,
and carried by their concern. 
In a lonely world, I am rarely alone.
I walk with their strength,
this villages love.
I have been built by softness,
stone by stone.