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When I ask, the histologist responds,
Cells have no color.
We use ink to color the slides.

In my understanding,
my ultrasound was all light,
some grey. My child grew to be

made of dinosaur sounds,
toothy kindness, and no particular color.
I consider it theft, when I have to

teach my child
how to answer, what are you?
and, where are you from?

Theft, when he learns
the futility of two hands
raised in surrender.

Ink bleeds through
our ability to see, our
sanction to breathe.

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