Unlike you,
my copper skin glazes in the sun.
And my almond eyes twinkle.
Unlike you,
I sweat the fruits of my labor,
and make my living plucking from your collection
of cotton.
Unlike you,
I shape my hands deformed,
and sing songs of home praised Africa,
and long walks in native pools.
Unlike you,
I grieve standing up,
and deal with the separation of
my family.
Unlike you,
I work all day,
and gain little rest.
To wake up and do it all over again.
Unlike you,
I stand an alien,
abducted by those you call white.
And unlike you,
I can't phone home.