I can’t justify my self to you, so I will try to explain.
No, this is not an excuse, for I was not there on that day
long ago through fields and over mountains and the plain.
Looking through the keyhole, or history. I can barely make out
the one dominating, but I know his skin.
I can’t resist your battery of words, yet he is not my kin.
My great, great, great grandpa was a bondservant with a
master.
That man wished for work and for labor to be done faster.
Don’t think that I got all this handed to me, for I had to
work and scrape just like you see.
I have learned to hate my skin in all its pasty white and
red.
You still hate me no matter what I have said.
Well to tell the truth I hate me, too.
That’s what’s so strange, because in my genetics I am an
African just like you.
