Africa, inches under my fingers.
Invisible in my head.
Timeless place inside my soul.
Geology of DNA.
First mother in a necklace of motherhood.
Children of longitude and latitude.
I would know Africa when I found it.
My eyes an Africa sight.
My voice an Africa song.
But you are not Africa,
they would say.
You are white.
And I would say,
from traveling a solar system
around the earth,
devoured by mountains,
lonely sea,
held captive in dark dungeon,
piteous cold,
heart broken by incessant drum,
then to be told
I am not a son.
Not the refugee of my land.
Not the blood that courses in me.
No right to the sea shells borne
by tide and time.
Pick up those stones of code.
The fallen feathers of love.
The dreams that held dreams together.
Children of Africa
thrown over the earth.
Strangers to doors where they belong.
Africa, inches near,
no wider than the hand
put on the place I call home,
and belongs to me,
white skin or not.