Light Skin
What it's like
to be a light Black, a dark White
is mistakes
made in the secret night,
slave woman and her master,
an affair
of captive and captor.
What it's like
to be a light Black, a dark White
is to always be seen for your darker side
and never
for what you might believe or become:
free from your father's people.
What it's like
to be a light Black, a dark White,
is to never truly belong.
Who are my people?
Certainly not my Daddy's people,
who whispered with back-country snake venom and moonshine
when they knew my Daddy loved my Mama.
What it's like
to a light Black, a dark White
is to have a conflicted soul and dark eyes
when secretly,
shadows wished you not to exist
but smiled and crooned
in soft Southern hymns
at your innocent, unknowing face.
What it's like
to be a light Black, a dark White
is to be never understanding, always wondering,
Why do you see me with monochrome vision?
Why can't you see, a color does not define me?
I am not gray area between what is
right and what is wrong.
What it's like
to be a light Black, a dark White,
is to have a
Lynyrd Skynyrd "Sweet Home Alabama" hummin' Daddy
who never hated negroes
like his Daddy did
and a Mama,
dark as warm chocolate with a free soul,
who healed my Daddy's battle wounds with her song-sweet voice,
liquid honey of her people's past.
What it's like
to be a light Black, a dark White
is to no longer
be a mistake...
but a will to fight
the hate that came before me.
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