Let us catch yo’ light-skinned ass on The Great Wall of China again.

We’ll show you some real tender-headed Black boy Kung Fu;

    drag our knuckles

       across concrete riverbanks

           of pitch and soot to bust your bottom lip.

Come clad in those ugly-ass NASCAR track pants—   

that tight-ass wife-beater tank top,

that wide-ass grease-tinted forehead you got from Daddy.

Our tiger palms will Cadillac turn

        on their

              way

                     to slap

                            the Black off you.

We’re owed a swan kick, Jaden—

owed Jackie Chan hijinks, and Bruce Li’s gi.

Our single mom was meant to grindstone rusty spoons

into mirror-cool silver. WE were meant to wax and wane

in the ruby glow of lantern-lifted destiny!

Those were OUR fucking forbidden fruits to forage

from the Beijing Beverly Hill Chinaberry trees.

 

Sure, we were only twelve. And, upon reflection,

we can see how you would’ve been a bigger box office draw. 

But can you blame us for the jealousy?

 

Do you have any idea how important Kung Fu is to broke Black kids?

Aching

        to pinch

           bullets

               from the breeze

or weave some semblance of control within the fibers of our futures.

 

When you air-balled, breakdanced, let that giggling girl

pluck strands from your hair; when castor oil drooled

from your nunchuck braids onto the pavement,

when bullies stove your stomach in,

tell us, where’d you summon those tears from?