My father was a writer. He wrote articles, short stories, children's books, and satires. Short, sharp, funny parodies like, I'm Okay, but You're Not So Hot, and the literary scavengers' answer to ... [+]
My nana has an accent.
The blood still drips into her sentences.
Fear made her deny her home
cutting out her mother tongue.
It shoved language down her throat,
and she stumbles over sharp english edges.
Her hair, corse and curled–like mine,
and they made me hate it.
With my mother's milk-pale skin,
her genes bleaching me.
Past generations adoring European paste
and all that's left is a ghost.
Then there's the stench.
Hair burnt straight.
Crucified curls,
Denied of their bounce And beauty And joy.
Rebellious strands zig zagging
refusing to straighten out.
I touch those pieces,
and wish they'd all just be the same.
The blood still drips into her sentences.
Fear made her deny her home
cutting out her mother tongue.
It shoved language down her throat,
and she stumbles over sharp english edges.
Her hair, corse and curled–like mine,
and they made me hate it.
With my mother's milk-pale skin,
her genes bleaching me.
Past generations adoring European paste
and all that's left is a ghost.
Then there's the stench.
Hair burnt straight.
Crucified curls,
Denied of their bounce And beauty And joy.
Rebellious strands zig zagging
refusing to straighten out.
I touch those pieces,
and wish they'd all just be the same.