My Privilege

My privilege does not come in different cuts

does not have a matching bag

or an appealing bust

My privilege comes in extra skin-tight

size 10, colour black and white

 

My privilege has English as its first language

with chunks of Creole, bloodline of Oku Marabou rotting in my mouth

my mouth

unaccustomed to forming the queer words

crippling in third place

as I place my British and Italian passport right next to my Gambian one,

knowing that the first two work far better for my tongue.

 

My privilege is complaining about white privilege

bemoaning the benefits I cannot reap from my  genetic linkage

is stealing the idea for this poem from a black girl

is writing about other black people’s fight

because even though I’m a shade too dark, I still have my rights.

 

My privilege is using stock names to describe injustice

Rosa Park, Malcom X, Martin Luther King,  Nelson Mandela, Nina Simone,

my voice is nothing more than just a dictaphone.

My privilege is  the silver tones,

the liquidation of word, bubbling saliva

frothing disgust,

yet leisurely night sleeps that remain untouched

untouched by the real urgency of the thought

‘My life is cheap’

How are you ever suppose to put that thought to sleep?

 

My privilege suffocates me,

I’m drown in guilt ridden waves of the lighter shades

obliged to recall the haunting memories of the slave-trade

I bite my lips to the comments of my

distasteful preoccupation with skin,

the silky rich black bleached to blotchy caramel,

Do you not think it would be much easier for me to turn a blind eye?

to pretend that one day all of this will pass by?

 

But my privilege is this,

extra skin-tight

size 10, colour black and white

Is me placing my British and Italian passport right next to my Gambian one,

knowing that the first two work far better for my tongue.

 

 

 

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