Vines of Ivy hold back a secret garden of opportunity

Our sincerest apologies but you can’t be our token black

We hold the keys to dreams that died long ago in ancestral Eve

But your poverty pimped poetry prose didn’t move us like wallets filled with silver spoons

You swallowed your tongue in shame(or guilt, or cultural norm you don’t even know anymore) Spilt your sternum open for us to inspect the purity of meritocracy

Left behind to detectify the purity of blue blood

Mother Oshun gave you a plastic spoon once you were expelled from her womb

She reminds her of the village, the war, crimson waves that buried her under survivor’s guilt

You have your mother’s eyes of disappointment

An odor of a dream deferred