Page 109 of The Black Flamingo


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only some of them have a companion.

The host looks like a rock star—

black leather jacket, skinny jeans, long hair.

He can’t sing but he “warms us up”

with three songs on his guitar before

the open mic begins.

Out of twelve of us, the only other “poet”

is a white guy with locs called Vegan Warrior,

and his poem compares eating meat

to the transatlantic slave trade. It’s terrible.

I don’t pay much attention to the singers,

partly because I’m nervous, partly because

they’re not very good, and partly jealously

that I don’t sing anymore.

It’s my turn. I step up to the mic and read:

I Come From

I come from shepherd’s pie and Sunday

roast, jerk chicken and stuffed grape leaves.

I come from traveling through taste buds

but loving where I live. I come from

a home that some would call broken.

I come from DIY that never got done.

I come from waiting by the phone

for him to call. I come from waving

the white flag to loneliness. I come from

the rainbow flag and the Union Jack.

I come from a British passport

and an ever-ready suitcase. I come from

jet fuel and fresh coconut water.

I come from crossing oceans