Refracted Light

I prefer less saturation of societal impressions,
since through my sight, what parts of me seem white?
My eyes, perhaps, the ends of my nails. My teeth? Not quite.
The lighting’s highlights.

What is black amidst trillions of browns?
Perceived shadows encroached on pure towns.
Skin toned dark need not convey
foreboding,
——as night against the day.

Should I fear those tan-toned folk
when pain is what leaves them to leave all they know?
Safety, a change, is all they desire
but we must refuse them for their veiled attire.

The process of sight is an explosion of refracted light, so how
does a spectrum become a scale indicating a level of acceptance?
Colours are not classist, people are but no one here’s opaque.
Is this some hypocrite’s mistake?

I can’t, shan’t, never shall box diversity’s beauty away,
pluck one piece and say,
“Those others?  We hate.”
“We want an ethno-state.”
“We’re a white nation
—–founded by and for the white man—”
——————-No, fuck your racist shite, Sam.

Let all bloom and not wilt,
Let no conscience feel guilt
Over constructs so arbitrarily built
In fear. “In difference, we must fear—” We must not!

There are greater things to rock us than the tone of one’s skin.
Forget my count of melatonin, hear the tone in my voice. Take your medicine
from Dr King:
“Not by the colour of their skin, but by the content of their character.”
And so, if gracious and loving you be,
To me, your dearness gleams regardless of genes.

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Meeting Place (2017) Watercolour, pencil, acrylic and soft pastel on paper.

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