They say I have his eyes, this grandfather whom
I have never met. The light grey ring around his hazel
iris skipped my father, his son, and latched itself to me.
Unusual, striking, so strange for a dark-skinned individual
to present with such beautiful eyes. Then the questions
start. Where are your people from? Do you have your father’s
or your mother’s eyes? I smirk as I listen to these comments.
It’s nothing new, I’ve heard it all before.
Now, I’ve passed it on to my little one. My six-month-old son
looks at me with those same eyes whispering our secrets, telling
of the Caucasian blood mingled with our African blood; outing
our past without an uttered word.