To Be American

             “Why can’t we all be just American?”

I cannot be just American.
I am not the one who census takes
or makes the rules you wish to break—
I am not just American.

When the blood of Afrikan slaves course through my veins
and the sounds of Taino Indians magic make,
when Spanish rolls off my curled up tongue
and my heart beats a rhythm enthralled in song—
I cannot be just American.

When my breasts grow fat and round and sweet
and my buttocks mash in labored heat,
when my lips churn to chastise the pain of human trade
and the newness of a people born without intention—
I cannot be just American.

When what I know reflects the beast
of unstill rage and forlorn feast,
When what I want knocks down a door
to a patch of briars, my desires, replete
with the taste of milk, or sugar
from a cane, eat at my throat, or smoke
from tobacco burns my breath. I breathe:
I cannot be just American.

When my name means nothing
and the roots of Washington/Jefferson mean something,
when adjusting to one single concept means everything,
then having access to anything means—
I cannot be just American.

So I walk to the chorus of my blood,
my magic, my song, my body, my rights,
my wrongs, moving spirits from margin
to center, birthing more souls to be,
             but not just be,
             but to be in the sense
             of the intended be:
             a true being—

not just American.