“Not All 23”
They asked me
where I come from.
I didn’t answer with a border.
I answered with my base pairs.
Not all 23 chromosomes,
but enough.
Enough to carry the call
of a people
they tried to silence.
I have Kurdish markers—
not in myths,
but in measurable strands
that twist like mountain roads
through my blood.
They live
on the arms of my DNA,
like stubborn roots
refusing to be rewritten.
This is not an identity crisis.
This is an identity confirmed.
I don’t speak
to prove I belong.
I speak
because I remember.
And when they ask again,
“Are you really?”
I’ll say:
“Not all 23—but enough to burn.”