It's not a matter of where you were born.
It's not about your bloodlines and ties.
It's not reliant on how you emulate it.
You only need to love your grandma
By listening to her tongues and wiles.
There's your mother who wants success
For you and all her eight children.
So you throw away your accent
You wear newer clothes, better perfume.
You stop putting coconut oil in your hair.
When you go to school with home lunch
You take a sandwich. It moves inside
Your mouth like sand. There's no more
Red rice, kimchi cucumbers, or tityas
On your paper plates wrapped in foil.
You bring brown paper bags or ziplocks.
You forget to fuel yourself, so you run
Empty. There's a hole inside where
Hibiscus grow. You pull them out, tearing
Roots from your heart. You feed yourself
With it, cannibalizing your heritage.