red, for the scar running down my calf.
it’s from swinging in the park -
from being pushed off, because
my skin was the color of dirt
and i belonged with it.
orange, for the fire flickering in my room.
bangles rattle on my wrist, and i pray.
God is there. God is watching.
i find myself clutching empty air.
yellow, for the heat of the sun on a summer day,
beating down on a crowd of anger.
i had never thought of yellow as furious until today,
until people turned against people
for the colors they wore on their back.
purple, for the bruises littered on my arm,
driven in with seething insults.
this is my country. this is my home. for
all you talk about returning to greatness, how do you forget?
once upon a time, this was not your home.
you conquered and destroyed, and
expected no one to rise free from your chains.
i’m not sorry if you were wrong.
blue, for the color of the skies.
everyone calls it that, but again, it is a medley -
blue and orange and gold and dusty rose.
we are the skies, a song of colors.
how dare you not call us art.
brown, for the color of my skin.
it holds my culture — even that is many
different shades — and wear it proudly.
but i am a masterpiece, and
so much more
than just brown.

