Contact (A Poem)
The child's eyes
Look up into his weathered face.
Into his lap she climbs,
Are you that colour all over?"
He takes her small, pale hand in his,
Then turns his over
Shows her his palm.
"Yes, I am,"
His serious response
"Except for the palms of my hands,
And the place where the sun don't shine."
Says the child,
Looking up again
Into his dark brown face
And then at her small hand in his.
White on black.
Man and child go separate ways.
Never forgets that black on white
The different and the same.
Never forgets the lesson learnt
Is skin deep.
My parents were extremely open-minded people who treated everyone the same regardless of little details like skin color or sexuality.
This one is for Obadiah, wherever he may be now.
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