You may have your expectations,

But who's to say who's claimed

In the race?

Like it's a race,

Like I don't deserve a place,

And my legs don't share the chase

For greatness.

The narrative voice rings in my ear

Deeper than my headphone does.

Somewhere deep, in the river of my blood runs

The resounding, guttural love of

The Mother

Encouraging me upward.

So come at me with your sticks, stones, and curse words,

But my skin is rich and rigid,

And you can never touch my color.

My raw sienna melanin color.

My Skippy Peanut Butter color.

My cool, wet sand between your toes on a hot day in the summer color.

My 1950's vintage,

Hand-drawn, page-flipping

Creative-animation

Straight-from-the-imagination color.

My route leads from my roots to the future of my color.