Black British

Golden leaves colour the grey cold floor I walk on pondering. Born of Jamaicans plundered.  My patois perplexes & my complexion: milk chocolate brown under the jaded sun.  Perfectly bespoke – broken.  I seethe on remembering my ancestor chanting a frantic Wolof song. He bashed his drum cementing his tongue to the roots. On the grainy pale beach lined by baobabs – I and I stood by but couldn’t understand the lingua. You know wa mi bloodclart mean?

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