When I was younger
my afro was in braids nearly every weekend—
braids my parents warned I dare not wear
outside our neighborhoods
As toddlers
my sister and I might be bathed inside mop buckets—
a routine I dared not share outside our neighborhoods
Growing up, our vernacular was lovingly vibrant,
served with phonetic flair that, oddly, bothered outside neighborhoods
They never cared to see me where I was,
Only where there were
They never cared to know me where I was,
Only where they were
They wouldn’t care to hear me where I was,
Only where they were
They never even pretended to show interest in where I came from,
they only showed interest in folding me into where they came from.
So guess how they were only able to love me,
and what parts of me they never did
Not seeking to know or hear or see how I grew up,
they only loved me where they were
where they know less of me
not where I came from
the latter deeply all of me.