Coconut
Jonathan Fletcher
 

Though they use the slur to insult me, 
I’ve always liked the taste of the 
fruit, make from it cakes 
and cookies, milk and cheese. 
I even rub its oil into my skin. But 
it never lightened me for good.
 
What can?
 
Ham’s curse was worse, yet what sin 
earned me mine? Whenever I can, 
I try to speak in Spanish. But my 
vowels are as English as the Queen. 
My tongue trips over the erre. 
 
Roll, damn you, roll!
 
I couldn’t tell you much about Saint
Rose of Lima. I’ve never seen
Machu Picchu in person.
I don’t eat ceviche or ají de 
gallina. Or observe La Fiestas 
Patrias. How can I celebrate 
Perú’s independence 
when I’ve never felt peruano?
 
I’ve learned to say, Soy adoptado, 
as though that alone would 
excuse my accent, ignorance. 
If only I’d gotten to shoot 
my roots in the Global South, 
flower in a family as dark as me.
 
O, Juanito! Pobrecito!
 
Sometimes I’ll even kneel, clench my 
hands, pray to a God, whom I’m sure 
is white, though am not certain exists: 
 
O, Dios santo, hazme blanco, por favor!
 
Though my pleas are fervent, 
my fingers interlaced, 
my knuckles white,
yet only while in prayer, 
the rest of me stays moreno. 
 
I don’t deserve to be brown.