My daddy is black and my mommy is white,
and my grandpa says that I am just right,
that I am the day and I am the night,
that both were created to give us delight,
to warm us with sun and cheer us with sight
of stars in the sky in wondrous, swift flight.
He says that I'm me, a beautiful child,
who spills at the table and gets a bit wild
until a night's sleep restores me to mild,
who screams for attention whenever I'm riled,
who knocks over blocks when I have them piled.
"Just normal behavior," he said, and he smiled.
But often he says things I don't understand
like cygnets are ugly, but swans are quite grand,
like when he was young, he longed to be tanned,
like melting-pots work when the fires are fanned,
like racists are frightened of losing the land,
like I must have courage and simply demand.
Perhaps when I'm older, these things will be clear,
and although he'll be gone, his love will be near.