She looks

across the table at me

and sees what she can see:

woman approaching middle years;

small lines slow-revealing

to the surface,

grey often slipping its disguise,

loose gestational flesh and swells

and swelling;

once firm and slender

of limb.
She notices

thick hair: curls, waves,

kinks, fly-away, frizz.

And tough hands with grooved skin

and raised veins, sunspots,

minor occupational burns.

She wrinkles her just-right nose

where cells produce just-right quantities

of melanin, and sighs just audibly.

Like, not like, like,

not like.
Brown skin

not ‘skin colour’ skin

of the classroom Crayola set.

Brown skin that bristles

at the phrase.

Innocently spoken, ignorantly

blissful.

What you wanted.

Wasn’t this what you wanted?

An ignorance

never yours.
Outer-suburban neighbourhoods

of ‘80s homogeneity:

the forces of assimilation.

Assimilation.

Cold, callous word

always calling to mind

annihilation;

annihilation of self.

Sectors of resistance

but the insidious nature of the scheme,

at the very least, transfigures dreams.
When both

real and imagined worlds

deny your truths—

seeking, seeking

but never locating

a mirror that doesn’t lie,

the victor is cultural erosion. 
In subterranean consciousness

you decide on a mate

to release your progeny

from judgement.

Of course, you don’t realise this

when they’re comparing your skin tone

to faeces.

But twenty years hence, her father

stands beside you;

an outsider too, but not

at a glance.
And now

here she is,

beloved outcome

of your coupling.

Scrutinising you, unveiled eyes

for the first time

in her 7 years.

She is purity

and full-hearted

but she has found

what separates you.
You wonder

is this really what I wanted?

For her to feel, yet never

comprehend first-hand.

For these inclusivities

and exclusivities

to exist

between you and those

you’ve grown beneath your skin;

the ones you’ve suckled

from this skin.
Annihilate me now?