RAISIN IN THE SUN by Brian Gilmore

i wasn’t born in america.
i was born in hawaii.
i am not really black.
i didn’t grow up around
black people. i can’t make
sweet potato pie. i can’t fry chicken.
i can play basketball but i don’t have
a crossover. i never read JET or EBONY
growing up. i never saw “Soul Train”
or “Sanford and Son” either.
“Good Times” is a disco song by Chic
but i never knew who Chic was either.
rumor is i dropped acid. listened to the Eagles
mostly, “Hotel California,” and Kiss,
painted my face white with stars.
i rode a skateboard. i read stephen king,
not james baldwin or richard
wright. martha’s vineyard; is that
george washington’s old lady? the
underground railroad was really
underground. dred scott’s
a rasta, right?

shut the hell up.

my father left me.
went back home like he
was marcus garvey or
dubois or carl hansberry
going to mexico. he was
from chicago. he believed
in it. didn’t want to eat his pulled
pork on the south side only.
they hit his daughter
with a brick, broke his heart.
now we got to hear about it
a few hundred times a year.
walter younger.

walter younger

walter younger.
goddamn.

i wasn’t born in america but i
live there now. people there hate
me because i am black. because i
don’t have a crossover and can’t
fry chicken. but mostly because
i never come out anymore. i stay
home, read essays by james
baldwin, fiction by richard
wright. watch ‘raisin in the sun’
until my hair turns black.

To read more poetry by Brian Gilmore go to www.depoetry.com/poets/201303/05_brian_gilmore.html.