Flatland BIPOC

The old man

with kind eyes 

and warm breath

calls me Hispanic—


the word melting 

on his tongue 

like garlic butter. 


My wife’s skin,

my daughter’s skin,

my mother’s skin


is not like mine.

The cashier rounds up 

for charity.


I used to not care

but fog-words roll over

the depths of their sharing.


And the problem with garlic

is it seeps out through the pores.