You say mixed like it’s a festival,
like a banner strung across a street
where everyone is invited to dance.
You count origins the way people count colors,
pleased by the palette.
I stand inside one culture
the way one stands in a burned house—
not leaving,
not celebrating,
just knowing where the walls used to be.
You speak of bridges.
I speak of doors that were sealed,
names that survived only in mouths,
then not even there.
You inherit many.
I inherit absence.
My roots were not braided;
they were cut, replanted,
told to grow quietly,
told not to ask where the soil came from.
You celebrate diversity
because nothing was taken from you to get it.
I celebrate loss
because it is the only thing
that stayed consistent.
You call it resilience.
I call it remaining.
And if I am broken,
it is not because I don’t know who I am—
it is because I know
exactly what was erased
and refused to forget it.