Clay has a life of its own and I know this better than anyone
What better proof than the way this good earth cradles my feet when I walk
As if it knows that my hands spend most days crafting its kin on a potter’s wheel
Someone scoffs at my grandfather’s accent and
I chuckle for
He too is america
He is not stars and stripes or anthem
He is lost son of Canal Zone and Brooklyn’s favorite nephew
He is bean pie, incense, oil, and concrete
and I know no truer thing to call citizen
Loam has a life of its own and I know this better than anyone
What better proof than the way the earth welcomes me home
As if it knows
that I came from it and will return someday too soon
Someone mangles my mothers name and
I wonder if they know
that she is named after god
And yes she too is america
She is not national pride or Independence Day
She is “Lift every voice and sing”
She is panama wind and georgia cotton
And the dust that blows in between
See dust has a life of its own and I know this better than anyone
What better proof than the way the land refuses to acknowledge borders
Simply sprawls and calls all the world it’s own
Someone sneers at my hijab and yet I am content to know that
I too am america
I am not red, white, and blue.
I am no patriot.
I am hands, brown as the rich dirt I pray on
I am ancestors who bodies bent and broke to build all that we know
I am daughter
and friend
and lover of my home
and I have never found pride in flag or country but
I claim america
Through the land and the people who fill it
live on it
tend to it
The ones who come from every land in the world
and have nothing in common except calling this one home
The people who know struggle ease joy and pain
Who inspire movements and demand change
The ones who turn this land into tapestry of culture
color, language, and creed
This land has a life of its own and we know this better than anyone
What better proof than the way it pronounces our names
Calls us family and holds us close
Speaks to us of black blood and indigenous bones
We too are america
And I am only the earth that my ancestors tilled
and that was stolen long before
I am the constant mourning of plunder
and the renewal of every spring
I am the dirt the clay the rivers the rocks
I am not nation only land
And I am that with all of me