I do not remember how old I was when I realized I was Black. 

That my skin was rich with melanin

and my hair

kinky curly

was not that of my parents. 

It was never a secret.

It was never meant to be. 

I do remember when I first became a bridge.

In a school classroom full of white kids

I was one of two Black children.

The word slavery came up 

and suddenly we were the connection.

We were other.

A case study of how far we have come

shaking off our chains.

Never mind the fact my ancestors were not enslaved.

Never mine they could have been, for all I know. 

Never mind I never consented to being a bridge.

Never agreed to forgive a race for their trespasses

while speaking for an entire other race

that did not choose me to speak on their behalf.

How do you turn a human being into a structure? 

Do they suddenly lose their face and the ability to move? 

Becoming stagnant

unable to bend

to break

to rebuild or come undone. 

I have spent years closing the divide.

I am still closing the divide.

I am still the bridge

before I am the person. 

I fight for my face

and sway in the wind. 

I try to grow legs

and take back my arms

begging my heart to reappear.

I am still present

Underneath all the concrete and cords

you can find me

breathing. 

I will not crumble.

Bridges do not break.

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