Ok, I get it.
We are not on the same page.

My page is made of lilywhite parchment.
It’s filled with words like privilege & poolside.
Its feather quill etchings tell of family vacations,
Backyard play dates And back-to-school shopping.
Yes, there are scars, slashes
And teardrop stains,
But they are hidden at the edges
Under bits of discarded wrapping paper
From countless Christmas mornings.

Your page was pounded and pulped
From the root of Shaka.
The izithakazelo, once etched in African clay,
Rubbed out and replaced with a dompas rubber stamp.
Its faded markings tell of dead brothers,
Backyard chickens and the Sharpeville-school-shooting.
No tears, nor running water were permitted to seep through.
Ripped out and tossed across the ocean,
Lucky only that you did not come chained in a cargo hold.
Yet, akin the pages of your black brothers and sons here,
Filled with terms like thug & hoodie,
Lynching & shit-hole country.
Though the word kaffir has been replaced with nigger,
Segregation substituted for Apartheid,
The sentiment remains.

I don’t know why it took me so long to realize
That we will never be on the same page.
I’m sorry.

Linoleum cut by Elizabeth Catlett titled …and a special fear for my loved ones (from I am the Black Woman) , 1946