They tell me that I am a coconut.
Brown on the outside.
White on the inside.
The roots of my palm
tree are ingrained across the
span of the planet Earth.
The leaves that shade me
would shade you all too if you let them.
My mother's love; my father's strength.
So why am I a foreigner to all?
To my own people; my shell.
To the white culture that raised me; my meat.
If I am a coconut
how is it that no one wants me
to grow in their home?
They tell me, "You aren't one of us."
You are an American.
But how can that be if I lived there longer than I ever lived here?
They yell at me, "Make America Great Again"
But wouldn't it be more great
with more coconuts around?
They celebrate "Punish a Muslim Day"
But don't they know I punished myself enough
everyday of my youth, while wishing I was
a lychee, an apple, a potato even,
but not a coconut. Never a coconut.
Because being a coconut meant
remembering that I would never completely
belong. Not here. Not there.
But they can't break me.
No, not this coconut.
I've continued to grow, and ingrained my roots
in all, while fruiting and flourishing
And learning to belong within
the palm tree I call myself.