I wanted to be a white girl
from pre-school to sixth-grade
from classroom to playground
in Rolla, Missouri
where the white girls
sat taller, swung higher,
their skin smooth, bright,
clean.
I wanted the long blonde braids
that dripped down backs
like honey.
I wanted the soft cream skin
that wrapped around bones
without shame.
I wanted to be a white girl
like the ones I knew,
who went to Sunday services,
danced at the same studios,
ate at the same barbeques,
whose mothers ran school fundraisers
whose fathers went fishing on long weekends.
I wanted to be a white girl
but could never look like one.
The bleaching, prodding, plucking
did not make the hair on my face blend
like peach fuzz
into my cheeks.
The locker-room lotion, serum, sunscreen
did not make my brown legs shine
like ivory ribbons in the sun.
I wanted to be a white girl
but my mom had visa interviews
missed fundraisers,
and my dad watched cricket
having no patience for fishing.
We went to prayer on Friday,
not Sunday.
I wanted to be a white girl
because I believed white
was the only kind of girl to be.
I hated the valley of my body,
became used to hiding
its river of colored tenderness
until I took the train here and
it all spilled out of me,
as slow and sweet as melting toffee.
Now I live in the deepness of my skin
smooth, bright, clean,
and my dark glows
like the city streets after warm rain.