The Darker Brother

I am the darker brother America's magnified pit- bull on a leash. Full of strength, and hope who was once sold to the highest bidder, and torn asunder from the only land I ever known.

I was birthed in Africa, and now America is the place I call home. I am the darker brother who's beauty America refuses to see. They tell me I too am American, but my American comes with hyphen so how American can I truly be? A hyphenated American is not American to me.

I am the darker brother black like the depths of my Africa, who carries a sorrowed song. My ancestors limbs still sprawl this land I call home.

I live in America, but America never was America to me.

I am the darker brother on my skin the teeth of America took a bite, I still bear scars of slavery hoping to find wabi-sabi (the Japanese way of finding beauty in imperfections) in this American life.

I am the darker brother the great American puzzle, that rose from a crack in the concrete who's beauty America refuses to see.

I live in America, but America never was America to me.

I am the darker brother who calls America home. My soul thirst for a sip of the American dream, but there is no freedom in this “homeland of the free.” I breathe in the air of inequality.

I am the darker brother black as the night is black, black like the depths of my Africa. My body is bruised, and stiff from all of America's misery.

I live in America, but America never was America to me.

I am the darker brother who sings a sorrowed song, America has ignored my beauty for far too long. I am the imperfect perfectly hyphenated American.

I live in America, but America never was America to me.

I am the darker brother America's magnified pit- bull on a leash, but I rather be a giraffe so that I could contemplate the beauty of my Africa.