Why is it that the white crayon
doesn't make a mark upon
the colored paper of diversity?
Why is that, as a young white girl
I have less of a chance
of getting into a university?
Do they not know that I'm just
as different?
My father abused us, white as
he was.
My mother left, poor,
and her caucasion blood
didn't matter so much when
it spilled all over the tile.
And my pale face and pink smile
would never tell you what
happened
and you would never guess.
And no one ever wonders
because I'm supposed to have it
best. But did you know
that blue eyes are more sensitive
to sunlight
and the paler my skin is
the easier it burns
and though a white man has
never shunned me for my color
he has assumed that I was fine
and never looked deeper into my eyes,
never asked what was going on at home
or why I begged to be left alone;
No one asked if I needed help,
they thought my parents were doing well
because I'm not a minority.
And no, I'm not a minority,
because aren't we all children,
aren't we all from battered homes,
and aren't we all colorless when we
close our eyes in fear and brace for
the impact of the hand that sees no color
but red, blazing red, red anger
for a child that has done nothing wrong.
And haven't we all been,
all along,
the same.