I grew up in a country of
fish & chips
& 9 to 5.
With jet back hair and dark skin
I stood out sorely at school,
in the street.
I longed to visit that place, elsewhere,
Which my parents always spoke of.
The place where I would fit in.
Now I am here,
And I did not grow up in this country of
chappatis & dahl
& ooh-rahs & air-rahs.
I stand out sorely at work,
on the bus,
in the street,
With my too-short hair and my too-light skin.
‘Western immigrant’, they whisper.
It reminds me of that place,
Where I grew up,