Who are you?
There is her
Who sits on her humble throne in the living room
Unknowingly controlling you all
She sits and knits and gossips
Like she used to do with her aunties and cousins
Back home
The home she left when she was 19
After the birth of her third child
The one they call your mother
So here you sit between your cousins
Chocolate brown and lily-white
You are somewhat brown
Olive, is what they tell you
But you’re more beige
Brown and white
A muddle on a paint palette
Not enough red or blue to make you human
A grey-green sludge on a page
No-one claims you
So you claim yourself
It doesn’t make sense that they call your brother
A terrorist and a paedophile
Yet you are exotic and beautiful
Your noses are exactly the same though
Not quite west
Not quite east
Just a little crooked with a low rounded point
At what point do they consider you human?