I am jealous of people who know where they come from. Of the
“My grandma is from Jamaica
like slick straight from Jamaica.”
Smooth speech like patois is cocoa butter smooth on your back/
“My dad’s family has lived in the south his whole life”
Junebugs on a summer night, accents heavy like
legs over thick branches and
switches on back/
Who can tell me how plantains taste if fried in bacon grease.
Of the first generations,
Hungarian still itching to be scrawled across tongue types.
If I had to
where I come from,
you would get a story,
and not a sentence.
I wish this skin always came with nationality.
One day last year, my mother found
that the branches in our lineage
stretch across the Caribbean Sea.
We have St. Kitts
fast pumping drums
echoic corners of our blood
Makeshift ethnicity does not mandate
I come from,
teapots on the stove,
and Erykah on the stereo on
U-Hauls packed to the top
trecked across country or state.
With a mother in the driver’s seat and
a child in the cab.
Once, when I was young,
and again when my father was,
and many times before either of us.
We are migration, and midnight melody skin.
You: freckles and penned poetry.
Him, sentences spit, dreams dropped
Slick straight from the midst of
all of this.