Unplanted

You grow up like a seed planted in the wrong kind of the soil
the cold crumbly dirt that tries to squash you under its surface.
but you
push,
fight,
claw your way out
of the earth that names you foreign
no roots
no history
just a sprout for a legacy.

even the sun touches you differently,
on others it is warmth
on you it’s scrutiny
a spotlight on your differences.

they question why your leaves are a pigment too dark,
why your stem curves outwards
dips where it should be straight.

the lesson is learned early:
growth is conditional.

hosed down with questions that snap through your reverie.
“where are you from?”
“where are you really from!”

you try to water down your colour
hide your pungence in shame,
trim your presence so you won’t be weeded out.

but you were not grown to be a part of their garden.
your pigment carries the richness of ancestors
who cracked open the earth
so your roots could span across continents,
deep into the lands they were barred from.
so you could blossom so vividly
that your potential could not be uprooted.

so no amount of pruning could keep that sprout contained.