Her parents were born,
In a land far away,
Beautiful and magical,
But they couldn't really stay.
They needed better jobs,
To fuel a better life,
Opportunities and freedom,
An education for their child.
And so they brought her here,
To a place so very strange,
Where people spoke so well,
But couldn't say her name.
She often wondered why,
All her dolls were blonde,
When her hair was dark and thick,
And her skin a shade of bronze.
Her friends would find it funny,
When she tried to talk like them,
Because she had her parents' accent,
So she started to pretend.
As the girl got older,
The mask held pretty strong,
She stopped wearing pretty sarees,
And forgot her mother tongue.
Her parents were confused,
When she refused to pray at night,
Her mum cooked her favourite curry-
But she refused to take a bite.
She felt different to her friends,
Who mirrored the people on TV,
And there was no one like her,
In books or magazines.
This continued to adulthood,
And though she felt ashamed,
She didn't like her parents near,
So they soon became estranged.
Even though they tried for her,
They weren't as fluent as she'd like,
Spice always lingered on their clothes,
And they left the scent behind.
She attempted to reconnect once,
With what she felt she'd lost,
But then she met her boyfriend,
And she just simply forgot.
Because when she met his parents,
They looked her up and down,
Focused on her dark brown skin,
And settled with a frown.
She was a doctor!
Helping people day out-day in,
Still she was looked down on,
For her extra melanin.
And so she strived for "perfection",
Then on her wedding day,
Dressed up in an a ivory dress,
Despite her parents' dismay.
And on the day that she gave birth,
She felt some morbid joy,
When the midwife said that she should be proud,
Of her light-skinned blue-eyed boy.
The beauty and the magic,
Of the land across the sea,
Was a strange concept to this girl,
That she just couldn't quite believe.
She never did go back there,
But she never shed a tear,
That wasn't who she was,
And it hadn't been for years.
YOU ARE READING
The Lines We Write ✔
Poetry❝Dreamer is too pretty of a word: A breath of wistful naivety, Masquerading as the oxygen of hope in our lungs. It reads as a fantastical tale of serendipity, In the novel, Life- Written in our name.❞ Highest ranking: #58 in poetry
