Petals from exiled roots

They ask me where I’m from like it’s a checkbox, a drop-down menu, a language I should select without hesitation, as if history were tidy, and belonging came preloaded. I pause. Because my answer has footnotes. Because my name carries dust from roads my body never walked but my blood still knows. I say Armenian, then comes the follow-up, inevitable, polite as a checkpoint: “Yes, but where were you born?” As if birth certificates outrank blood, as if geography cancels