I’ve never been the magnolia, orchid, or rose, admired by eyes or praised in poems. I’ve never walked barefoot through the emerald blades established in my ancestors’ soil. Iceland poppies and flowering perennials never adorned my dream of a white picket fence, but brightened my garden. I find beauty in dandelions because I have hope for sun on Sundays, peace Monday through Friday, and more sun on Saturday. My dreams of sprinklers, trimmed shrubs, and glasses of lemonade were drenched by the pouring rain of reality. Vehement dreams never go unnoticed. I was never the crimson rose that grew so beautifully, admired by eyes in awe, allowing strangers to feel my petals and inhale my lingering scent. I will not drown into an oblivion of pulchritude and purity that spills from the watering can of ignorance. I am not sorry that I could not grow among the roses. I derived from a fracture in the concrete of destitute America, in the midst of a weighted society. I stemmed from a land where dandelions are hated and unappreciated, but a brilliant, bold, yellow-faced dandelion can never be forgotten. There will always be a flower prettier, brighter, and more livelier than you, until you realize that a flower as beautiful as you doesn’t belong in a rose bush.