one drop rule

I think about volume.

I think about variation.

I think about plasma.

But mostly, I think I am hiding in plain sight.

I think about abundance.

I think about nourishment.

I think about vital fluid.

But mostly, I think this is my father's gap.

I think about Africa.

I think about the sea.

But mostly, I think of the saliva you spit at my family.

I think about rain, a lot of rain.

I think about the drops, are they at random?

I think these drops may be cells.

Not the white blood cells or the red blood cells,

But the half black blood cells.

united states department of education

The mason-dixon line splits my scalp between the length of my hair and the height of my bangs.

North and south on the same hard head.

I was educated by the south.

during african american criticism the professor asks me,

“Have you ever been to africa?”

“Do you have any black friends?”

“when filling out paperwork do you check black or white?”

my only thought was, we are in baltimore, right?

the man of the hour says i need to pay the professor back faster.

but, i’m still thinking about baltimore.

the day of my promotion,

the first day in the end of these questions that have hovered over my now graying scalp

i think, maybe i should have transferred.

my writing process

i can’t hear my voice.

the room is too loud.

i speak up

i can feel my throat vibrate as i say the words.

but i still can’t hear what i’m saying.

i know it is important for me to hear it too.

i project my voice even louder.

not one person looks over.

i try again

this time my voice cracks,

i become hoarse.

i finally give up,

i’ll try again tomorrow.