You tell me to go back home

what must I do to make you happy?

my mouth does not curve the way you'd like
I can't speak 

words that hit close to home
we are worlds apart from being alike
I have softer features: a smaller frame, tanned rough skin and eyes slit open just slightly

You ask me if I can see, and I tell you, most days I can see quite clearly

My ancestors have carried me so far, 

my calves are heavy and my toes spread apart
My grandparents survived solely on rice - I must do the same
When they weave, they weave threads of red, white and black and with them, dignity and pride
But I have been wearing dull colours, beige, grey and blue but they must suffice, 

I must make myself blank so that you can paint your culture on top of mine
I must assimilate, I must adapt,
I must try and I try and I try and I try. 

What can I change to make you like me more?

Shall I burn my clothes? exchange my shoes and bags, change my closet to look like yours?

It took acres of my ancestor's land and my father's blood to bring me here

but they can't quite be enough.

Ah, trivial tribal things, they are disposable and your interest is fleeting.

I needed a hundred more acres and my father's death - and why couldn't I make that sacrifice?

Assumptions, questions and passive aggression, 

My, do they come easy to you.

You tell me to go back home, I'm ashamed that most times I want to.

- ៷