I am not second generation.
I was torn from my mother land.
Whether abortion or miscarriage,
I was not born American.
Maybe torn from legs forced apart
Or broken hearts
Or a nation knuckling under
Or shameful nonbrides
maybe anything
but
I am of another land.
I am an immigrant.
A wetback, a wanderer
an interloper, a foreigner
with skin too dark and hair too long
missing my native tongue
playing a two-sided drum
in New York
learning from other immigrants' stories
of love,
and triumph, and pain,
and anger, and service,
and fear and hope
Watching Star-spangled banners whipping in defiance
against the foreign threat.
Knowing I'm 'Other,'
a problem
I can't sing "God Bless America"
or pledge allegiance to a flag--
(What a strange idea!)
because I know
with a pen stroke I would not be here, American.
it's not fate or love or justice or mercy that brought me here
it was a greedy industry and a fluke
I could have been Dutch, a Swede, a Kiwi.
So it's not so special
I'm an immigrant. American.
I am not second generation.
