fathima

they are called pick up trucks here– not utility
and we sit in the middle because we’re older
gotta make sure the kids go home safe
like hybrid station wagon with a closed behind and that tiny sunroof
low tier international school for the low tier
expats with brown mothers and white-less dads
so if you’re not half white here what are you?
if you’re full blood here what are you
and i see how everybody else prefers
the ones closer to double triple f-ers
pick them out as little girls
and wait for them to blossom

we all meet for prayer every afternoon
on the top floor of the main building like
penthouse parties but we praise allah in the midday sun.
with bellies full and listen to the creak of the rusty swing set
they cant afford to buy a new one just yet
low tier international school for the low tier
immigrant families and low key
lovers under the tamarind tree
and boys that are too cool for me
chased around table arrangements
and spoke languages neither of us
could speak

and so she whispers treachery into my ear
and ducks the imaam’s watch when we
destroy god and colour in the same breath
the cool boys never wanted me when i
blushed behind their northern skin
we’re mostly the same kind but he’s just passing
and so she whispers treachery into my ear
in the middle of hybrid pickup station wagon
almost three times a week after school
on the ride home
injects sceneries into my soul
and kissed me without
thinking

imaam takes glances, i get off with earthquakes
in my kneecaps  her icicle fingers lined my back
know she’s back home in west africa
with a husband and a child like her sister
occasionally dots the message bar with a red flag
and i’ll always be a low tier expat
with a white-less dad

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