The kids at school keep picking on me,
say I’m too black,
and that I need to go back to Africa, the motherland.
Say my skin is the color of charcoal
and my nose as wide as a desert plain.
I don’t let them see me cry, see me weak, see me vulnerable, no.
I ignore them with my head held high
because when I look in the mirror I see
skin the color of the midnight sky after a thunderstorm,
so clear and rich in melanin,
and hair that defies gravity,
and I like what I see.