my grandmother's hands

as a boy, black was the last

color i wanted to be because

i wanted to be wanted (by

people, but mostly by my

country).

i didn’t want to be

the color of the atlantic ocean

at night (the same sea that

raged in onyx waves beneath

slave ships that held carried

my ancestors like unprecious

cargo)

or the color of the ink

used to write the constitution

(which i once hoped to drag

my index finger across—tracing

every syllable and serif slowly

to learn how “justice” and “liberty”

feel)

or the color of a ballot

box like the one my grandmother

was not allowed to use (perhaps

because the box was black like

wet soil, and her ballot was a seed,

and her country was afraid to let

her grow)

but then i remembered

that black is the color of my grand-

mothers hands, which wrapped

around me every summer she

visited us. and as soon as the

evening sun poked through the

kitchen window, wrapping

around her curls until they

became a crown.

how does

the light know you’re royalty?

i’d ask her. and she’d say,

because being black means

holding every drop of light

because you’re not one color

but all colors, just like

your

country.