My Parents

My parent’s wear their heritage like dichotomies. You always ask, are those your parents? Confusion. Don’t know how skin like royal mud and ivory could make caramel. Yes! My father is a glory, an unfathomable color of every hue, his skin dark. My mother is a glory, porcelain and ivory, light as the end of the tunnel. My parents were yin and yang. And they loved me cause I was both of them in one. They made me in their image. Crafted me with love and labor. I’m my parents son, I said, I’m my momma and poppa’s son. I’m a blessing. And all I do is in their names. In their honor. To the family! This is my chant. My prayer. This is my culture.


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