My Santiago

And a novelty here in this continent of latecomers, who landed, grabbed and owned what wasn’t theirs; This vast flat land, Where the dialect is my mother tongue, Yet somehow, Can’t seem to place words in the right order, Or wrap my tongue around the V’s and the W’s, Giving me away, At unexpected moments, as alien. But foreign is not race or creed or tongue, Or even colour; Foreign being within, Keeping me separate from the first place, Distant from my last, Not knowing to whom or what I belong, Finding my tribe in odd places, At offbeat moments, Now journaling them in my heart, And then – With no need for masquerades of tongue,

No cause for pretence, I am foreign no more