I am the sum of all my mistakes 

a lingering feeling of regret 

washes over centuries of my bloodlines 

I am the native, the colonist, the savage, 

the imperialist, the immigrant, the slave, 

the forman, the lord, the worker bee, the 

plantation itself 

growing from bloodied weeds.

My children will likely be light skinned and privileged like my great grandfather, James 

Or they will not exist at all 

If I spend one more night teetering at the edges of relief 

Quiet. 

I remember the smell of roasted corn in the evenings 

and tortillas burning my fingers 

I can’t feel the tips of them anymore 

I can’t feel the ravaged happiness of my earth

There is only the confusion,

the conundrum 

What and where and who and how 

And will it ever be more? 

– sheila c.