Texas migrant shack,
dirt floor beneath the bed.
The children born Americanos! Their Mother, Americana born of Mexicanos. Their Father, sin papeles, undocumented!
Until he buys, the Green Card,
now free
to work the fields with his children.
But they are detached from their roots, like onions pulled from the sweet soil of a hot Texas field.
They adapt—no benefits,
or tools,
to make them relevant.
They are inwardly white,
oreos, coconuts,
yet color coded by race.
Born Americanos!
Their Mother, Americana
born of Mexicanos. Their Father, sin papeles, undocumented!
until he buys, the Green Card,
now free
to work the fields with his children.
The children are altered and absorbed by American morays.
No hero’s of their own, instead, Hero’s fly, They are tall, They are white—
y no se habla Español.
Born Americanos!
Their Mother, Americana born of Mexicanos.
Their Father, sin papeles, undocumented!
until he buys, the Green Card,
now free
to work the fields with his children.
He came from a line
that left the other behind,
to cross a bridge, to ford a river,
chasing the help wanted sign, the elusive American Dream
from California to the New York island/
From the Redwood Forest, to the gulf stream waters/
Picking crops for you and me. And all the while—his children, born Americanos!
