Colours

I am the colours of the world,

spectrum-spanning.

From Russian White escaping Red,

all worldly wealth sewn into hems

of newly-stateless skirts and cotton diapers,

set to start afresh.

.

To Asian oranges and yellows,

seasoning embedded in my cells—

who-where-when ignored by family lore.

In Hong Kong someone asked

if I were Ah Fa’s sister, notwithstanding

my lack of epicanthic fold.

.

My blood circulates the evidence

of generations—how the heat of green

Southern European groves

grew a love story, there in the passionate

sun-toasted soil, sharing bright siestas skin to skin

under limitless skies, indigo nights.

.

Father says “I am who I am.”

And though each generation’s borne

the purple bruise of rootlessness,

changing nationalities and names,

I am my Father’s daughter. Tracing

each journey in my DNA, I am who

I am. My veins bear the colours of the world,

hallmarking my mongrel

.

pedigree.