An Immigrants Position

I came first but you did not write me in history You made me mute, invisible, estranged From my own heredity and great memory With the slivering tongue arranged Upon my brain. You brought me back, later Across the wet desert of the Atlantic From coffle to cotton, without choice in the matter So I would believe I was a lunatic. For only lunatics have no sense of place or name Make roads they cannot walk, make garments That cannot cover the stereotypes of shame. I proved genius in better moral arguments Did not let me take your life for all your cruelty. Here is one more for your book, from islands To continents I made them all the same You left them blood and gold from your hands Dripping, I followed you with a different name Look again, who is the immigrant? Who do you fool? Let me not deny your stealth, this separation Of the vine from the root, by dividing you rule But before you set us at variance, a suggestion What is the DNA of all your wealth, the legacy Of pirates and slaves? There is no beggar's hand Here, just agents to recoup with undue courtesy The treasures stolen from love and native land