Boxes, Brown

All my life

I have been me

Not Brown, not Asian

Just me, of incongruity.

Leaving home

I find myself in boxes

Of immigrant

Of diaspora

Of “your English is so good!”

Boxes made

To decipher and digest

Boxes made

To contain nonetheless.

The edges chafe

My feet

The brown cramps

My flair.

Inside I crouch

Unsure, unseen

Explaining why I'm here

Where you've always been.

Maybe if I was unboxed

You could have a better look

My colours, my crooks

I could look at you too?

Making home

Let me do us both a favour

Escape

If you promise to find me later

In the fields.