Mother forgot the features when the rest,
Pinker than Persia, found her future black.
So father turned up, obligingly darker,
His iron skin rich with inherited rust.
Yellow frogs, grandmother called us,
Sallow herself, brass with a touch of ash.
Then you, rose, known to be fair and just,
Said that colours that ran in my family
Had no place in your sun.
True.
They were colours I ashed on your shoulder,
Bled on your shirt as I spoke.
They were true, and continue to run.
English