I am brown: A poem 

I am brown 

right from my crown 

Sometimes, I feel down 

Out of sync with town 

“Cry like an onion 

You bloody Indian” 

The man who called me that 

with the voice of prejudice spat 

Yes, flowers don’t come in brown 

but trees do, strong and sound 

Those who felt the snub of history 

didn’t rue the white man’s victory 

So, how come the white supremacists’ frown 

that an immigrant a new country found 

Sunlight tans every face, true? 

The colour is in the view, not my hue