Connecting my dots

Dotted on arms are speckled shades of brown.

A dichotomy between power and dots.

Cumulus clouds blocked me from reaching my full potential.

But ignorance filled in the gaps.

Acid. Lemon. On bleached white skin.

Yellow as butter,

Six years old fighting a dappled complexion.

While my mother,

Golden, bronzed, beautiful –

That's unnecessary!

On the beach, my skin had to

Blot in the sun.

Bluewater washed me down,

But I left the beach as freckled as the sand.

My mother was afraid to swim. So she

mirrored the glistening sea.

I was a wave

uncertain where to be.

Familiar brown dots change their spots. And I live

miles away from the Irish Sea.

And the gurus online start painting freckles on.

But I stay vivid. The freckles on my arms keep me in technicolour.