Mixed Race

The tectonic plates of my identity

Are shifting constantly.

One foot in one culture

And one in another. The steadiness

Of my stance depends

On fault lines;

If the ground beneath moves too much,

How do I decide where I land

My feet?

Where do I fit within the landscape

Of faces, when I am two

Places, overlapping?

A patchwork childhood - jammy dodgers

Butting up against bee hoon, dried pork floss

And corned beef - provides stepping

Stones, anchors to both the worlds

I move within.

And yet; I don't belong

fully here nor there.

A fact apparent in the frequent

Refrain of: where are you from?

More often than not, the answer

Is unsatisfactory, leading

To: where are you really from?

I can parse it. I know the real meaning:

"You look foreign.

Explain."