Can Of Paint

They say that I'm "White;"

But pick up a paintbrush,

And dip it into acrylic.

With no pigment to fill it--

And drag it across my skin.

Through my pores it seeps in.

And what do you see?

Does it camouflage me--

And sink into my being?

Is alabaster the only thing you're seeing?

Does it melt into my DNA?

Or is "White" just a word that we say?

They say that he's "Black,"

As if it's a fact.

But a challenge I sew,

To mirror Van Gogh;

Pick up that brush,

Heavy with Ebony.

I can't wait to see,

The look on your face.

As the bristles will trace,

A dark stroke on his skin.

That doesn't match his pigmentation.

They say that she's "Brown."

But grab hold of that brush,

And open a bottle of

Amber,

Pecan,

Or Mahogany.

Do you understand me?

I will make you see,

That no matter the color;

The shade, or the pen.

We won't be your canvas,

You can't paint us by number.

Because one is not red,

And two is not yellow.

Don't fill in ONE tone,

Or ONE tint for your fellow-

Man, or Woman.

We're not a splotch

You can get from a store.

We're so much more,

Than the colors you say...

And the labels which cause such dissaray.

So hear me now,

Just sit back and listen!

We're more than a can of paint

In your kitchen!