White-Washed
My mother fashioned my hair
into rows of wheat.
I am in a plaid button down
and cow girl boots–
this is the year
I will declare
my All-American heritage:
no more cornrow pleats
or Southern meals.
Today I am not my accent
or choice of meal.
I am a black stain
on a white handkerchief:
America stitched across
the borders,
colors confined,
between the right lines.