“My Blood is a Gumbo”

My blood is a Louisiana gumbo
seasoned to my latte-colored skin.
Many ethnicities dash in my blood,
pumping forcefully as the Mississippi River flows.
My ancestors, like seasoning inside me mix,
as a sultry dish to add to the human race buffet.

Humans are like a dish served on a buffet.
I’m the spicy Creole-Cajun gumbo
providing my Afro-Indian-French mix
to the smorgasbord of skin,
so with richness our aqua-green planet flows,
combining people who share the same blood.

Why is there so much blood
contaminating the decadent feast of this glorious buffet,
staining the tablecloth on which it flows,
splattering their unnatural tastes on my gumbo,
boiling all of human horror down to skin,
making the world a food fight instead of a harmonious mix,

butchering the pride of those who have a racial mix,
destroying the varied heritage in our blood,
boxing us into categories based on skin,
segregating the items arranged on the buffet,
straining out the ingredients of my mouthwatering gumbo
so that only a murky roux in the pot flows?

No Creole shrimp, crab, crawfish or other seafood flows,
no Native American spices in the brown liquid to mix,
only a bland, watered-down hastily concocted gumbo
infusing my body with anemic blood
setting me with the other barren food on the unappetizing buffet
with all the other compartmentalized colors of skin,

making conflict about skin,
forgetting that the same fluids in all people flows,
making our Earth an flavorless buffet
because we all have a creative mix
pulsating, pumping, pouring in our blood
not just in the primordial blend of my gumbo.