Mangu Con Los Tres Golpes

Blood runs deep in the veins of every single Human being.
Yet,
Still feel like an Alien who doesn’t belong on Earth’s gorgeous grass flowing to the winds of every step I take…

“Eh,
Ten fi’ty
Sir.”

Even if it’s 7 bucks for anyone who’s darker than me…

“Uhm,
Gracias senior,
Buen dias.”

A surprised look on their face when I bring out my spanish and speak.
Si!
Soy Dominicano,
But,
Apparently!
Carry skin too white for my culture,
Even if I own it with integrity…

No matter how much I’m denied,
Can’t live without Platanos,
Con sachichon y keso frito.
But,
With a chip on my shoulder,
Of keeping my identity postered,
On an inner child I rather hold closer?
I eat those jabs of rejection and lay on a prayer for closure…
Closure with a culture that won’t accept me for who I am…

What does being part of a culture matter,
When my Grandmother embraced me with love?
Although we grew up on different islands,
Without a single lick of English coming from her tongue,
We sat down with each other,
Learning of the places we originally came from.
And,
I can’t seem to say the same for many others who saw me as a blemish they would rather cover up…

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