Ana Karen Flores
Gorditas de azúcar
A poem series
Ana Karen Flores is a first-generation Latina poet, activist, and storyteller who explores the intersections of pop culture, advocacy, and community power. Born and raised in Texas, her work amplifies Latinx voices and centers the fight for collective liberation. Her poem series, Gorditas de Azúcar, is rooted in the resilience of her abuelitas, weaving themes of inherited survival, collective resistance, and ancestral strength.
Gorditas de Azúcar /
Sweet Gorditas
El silencio que habla /
The silence that speaks
Entre fronteras /
Between borders
Inheritance
Original
Gorditas de azúcar
Mi resiliencia huele a gorditas de azúcar,
la masa caliente que mi abuelita apretaba entre manos
de un cuerpo que parió más veces de lo que quiso.
Nueve hijos. Uno que nunca respiró.
Y todavía, la cocina olía a cariño.
Yo la miraba
sin saber que su espalda cargaba
más que cazuelas,
cargaba sueños que nadie preguntó si tenía.
Siempre había alguien más que alimentar,
alguien más que cuidar.
Nunca se detenía.
One summer, I saw her cry
just for a moment
in the still heat of the afternoon.
“¿Estás bien, abuelita?” I asked,
but before she could answer,
más niños entraron corriendo,
asking for comida,
fighting, shouting, laughing.
She wiped her face.
Turned back to the stove.
Y siguió.
She never said she was tired.
She just kept moving.
Mixing, folding, frying.
Smiling like sweetness came easy.
But I know now it didn’t.
Nunca la oí quejarse.
Solo la vi dar,
y dar,
y dar.
Cada gordita que me daba
era un poema sin palabras,
una forma de decir:
sigo aquí.
Her resilience never wavered.
English
Sweet gorditas
My resilience smells like sweet gorditas,
the hot dough my grandmother pressed between her hands,
a body that gave birth more times than it wanted.
Nine children. One who never breathed.
And still, the kitchen smelled of tenderness.
I watched her
not knowing her back carried
more than pots,
it carried dreams no one asked if she had.
There was always someone else to feed,
someone else to care for.
She never stopped.
One summer, I saw her cry
just for a moment
in the still heat of the afternoon.
“Are you okay, Grandma?” I asked,
but before she could answer,
more children came running in,
asking for food,
fighting, shouting, laughing.
She wiped her face.
Turned back to the stove.
And carried on.
She never said she was tired.
She just kept moving.
Mixing, folding, frying.
Smiling like sweetness came easy.
But I know now it didn’t.
I never heard her complain.
I only saw her give,
and give,
and give.
Every gordita she handed me
was a wordless poem,
a way of saying:
I’m still here.
Her resilience never wavered.
Original
El silencio que habla
She told me once,
Cuando tú viajas, yo viajo también.
Vives la vida que yo siempre quise.
Mi abuela, la que caminó sola,
fuerte, indomable,
me enseñó a tomar el camión en Monterrey,
vivía en un apartamento frío,
separada de un amor que la dejó vacía,
como una princesa encerrada
en una torre de concreto sin llave.
No la conocí bien cuando era niña,
pero en la universidad,
nos lanzamos juntas a muchas aventuras,
y poco a poco,
me contó su historia,
como si fueran gorditas de azúcar guardadas entre sus manos.
Three kids in her arms
todavía pedían más.
No vieron la noche en que casi muere,
tratando de traer otro al mundo.
Eligió la soledad,
pero también la libertad,
y en ese camino aprendió
a ser dueña de sus pasos.
Su resiliencia es un fuego callado,
la fuerza de ir,
de vivir sola,
de saber que estar sola
no es lo mismo que estar perdida.
Cuando era joven,
su papá la sacó de la escuela,
le dijo que era hora de ser esposa.
Pero ella aprendió a leer en secreto,
se quedó despierta hasta tarde,
entre libros y suspiros,
y nunca se detuvo.
Princesa pasadora me llama,
y en sus ojos veo
la historia de una mujer que se rebeló en silencio,
que luchó sin armas,
y que ahora, en cada paso que doy,
ella camina conmigo,
como sombra que no se separa,
and in every story she shares, I see
Her resilience never wavered.
English
The silence that speaks
She told me once,
“When you travel, I travel too.
You live the life I always wanted.”
My grandmother, who walked alone,
strong, indomitable,
taught me how to take the bus in Monterrey,
lived in a cold apartment,
separated from a love that left her empty,
like a princess locked
in a concrete tower without a key.
I didn’t know her well as a child,
but in college,
we set out on many adventures together,
and little by little,
she told me her story,
as if it were sweet gorditas
she kept hidden between her hands.
Three kids in her arms
and still they asked for more.
They never saw the night she almost died,
trying to bring another into the world.
She chose solitude,
but also freedom,
and on that road she learned
to be the owner of her own steps.
Her resilience is a quiet fire,
the strength to go,
to live alone,
to know that being alone
is not the same as being lost.
When she was young,
her father pulled her out of school,
told her it was time to be a wife.
But she learned to read in secret,
stayed up late,
between books and sighs,
and never stopped.
“Princess passer,” she calls me,
and in her eyes I see
the story of a woman who rebelled in silence,
who fought without weapons,
and now, in every step I take,
she walks with me,
like a shadow that never leaves,
and in every story she shares, I see
Her resilience never wavered.
Original
Entre fronteras
I cross the border with a head full of stories,
but part of me stays in Monterrey kitchens,
sitting on worn chairs,
eating gorditas de azúcar,
wondering why home always feels like it’s somewhere else.
Soy la primera en esta línea,
Americana.
Primera generación.
Autonomía.
Agencia.
Words they didn’t have,
but lives they lived.
I carry their stories
like protest signs,
like whispered memories in the wind.
Sometimes, I want to quit.
But then I remember
mis abuelitas nunca pudieron.
I was always the curious one,
asking questions, being loud,
speaking when told not to,
talking back.
I got to finish school
holding dreams like fragile wings,
learning to choose my own path
college halls, new cities,
the freedom to say yes or no,
to drive alone under open skies.
Free in ways they never were,
but carrying their resilience
like a second skin,
woven through every mile I drive.
And I cry when I think how unfair it is
how if someone forced me to live a life
where every day was just cooking and cleaning,
I might lose my mind.
But how can I stand the injustice,
if without their sacrifices,
I wouldn’t be here?
I try so hard
to live for them,
for my mami
for every women who was forced
to give up dreams,
to stay small,
to never say no.
My resilience never wavered.
English
Between borders
I cross the border with a head full of stories,
but part of me stays in Monterrey kitchens,
sitting on worn chairs,
eating sweet gorditas,
wondering why home always feels like it’s somewhere else.
I am the first in this line,
American.
First generation.
Autonomy.
Agency.
Words they didn’t have,
but lives they lived.
I carry their stories
like protest signs,
like whispered memories in the wind.
Sometimes, I want to quit.
But then I remember
my grandmothers never could.
I was always the curious one,
asking questions, being loud,
speaking when told not to,
talking back.
I got to finish school
holding dreams like fragile wings,
learning to choose my own path—
college halls, new cities,
the freedom to say yes or no,
to drive alone under open skies.
Free in ways they never were,
but carrying their resilience
like a second skin,
woven through every mile I drive.
And I cry when I think how unfair it is,
how if someone forced me to live a life
where every day was just cooking and cleaning,
I might lose my mind.
But how can I stand the injustice,
if without their sacrifices,
I wouldn’t be here?
I try so hard
to live for them,
for my mother,
for every woman who was forced
to give up dreams,
to stay small,
to never say no.
My resilience never wavered.
Original
Inheritance
They did not give me a perfect world.
They gave me gorditas de azúcar
laughter in kitchen tables
veranos en Monterrey.
They gave me my voice
at the sacrifice of their silence.
They gave me
half-truths,
legacies I didn’t ask for
but carry anyway.
I learn to name
what they could not.
I hold their grief
and grow from it.
Still, they’re here
in my gestures and my caution,
and in my laugh at the wrong moment.
I don’t just inherit their fight.
I remix it.
I soften where they couldn’t.
I rage where they wouldn’t.
I am the granddaughter
of women who weren’t asked what they wanted
so, I speak.
I dance without permission.
I don’t wait for the nod.
And in the mirror,
I look like all of them
and just a little like myself.
Our resilience will never waver.
English
Inheritance
They did not give me a perfect world.
They gave me sweet gorditas,
laughter at kitchen tables,
summers in Monterrey.
They gave me my voice
at the sacrifice of their silence.
They gave me
half-truths,
legacies I didn’t ask for
but carry anyway.
I learn to name
what they could not.
I hold their grief
and grow from it.
Still, they’re here
in my gestures and my caution,
and in my laugh at the wrong moment.
I don’t just inherit their fight.
I remix it.
I soften where they couldn’t.
I rage where they wouldn’t.
I am the granddaughter
of women who weren’t asked what they wanted.
So, I speak.
I dance without permission.
I don’t wait for the nod.
And in the mirror,
I look like all of them
and just a little like myself.
Our resilience will never waver.
Together, we’ll keep moving forward.