I wonder, at times, if my father had children with my mother to spare the pain of living with dark skin on his children.
I long for the sun-kissed melanin of his ashen knuckles. For the curls that his hair blessed my sister with.
I wonder what was the end of the rope that kissed my grandfather’s neck.
What was the end of the rope?
When did we lose the hope of chucking gandules on the back porch?
What was the call-to-action that made them aspire to pale-skin / light-skin succubi and sadness?
To lose themselves in the hands of mujeres olive-toned and even blanquitas.
I – a daughter of colonization –
Born of womb’s of confusion,
Of Brown men lost to dangling ropes and liquor bottles.
MG / 2-6-2018 / 1033 am