The way your voice jumped,
It went an octave higher.
Almost as if you had just heard
The unthinkable and unspeakable.
Does it faze you that I
Know the action of articulation?
The cadence of my words longer
Than four syllables brings shock to
If only mine did the same
When I hear
“You’re so well spoken.”
That’s how long we’ve known each other.
It seems like forever to you.
I know, I know.
Comfort and ease spill from me like
A fire hydrant on a sticky summer day.
That must be why you feel comfortable
Touching my hair without my permission.
“OMG, how do you get your curls like that?”
My curls? They’re natural.
I call it being one part black, one part Puerto Rican.
We were strangers two minutes ago.
I guess we’re friends now.
As Pusha T. said,
“My name is my name.”
My mother went to great lengths
To ensure she chose the right name.
Each syllable was carefully weighed,
Paying special attention to how it would sound
In moments of pride.
My name is my name.
She told me a name is important,
But I never realized how important until I grew older.
When she named me,
She gave me permission to find my identity.
You can’t call me fucking Patty.
My name is Pratika.