Words I do not know

AmaBhulu azizinja. The sounds are wrong
in my mouth: a blister or sore
on my tongue; the bitter grounds
from the last swallow of coffee;
a swollen, purple lip.


Abelungu bayazidiliz’ izindlu zethu.
My tongue is thick, like I woke up hung-over.
The words trip over my teeth, scramble awkward between my lips,
lose their meaning before they find my voice.
Uph’owam utata?


I cannot know these words.
My mouth is too timid, my skin
too pale, the words too sharp.
AmaBhulu azizinja, whites are dogs.
My white-peach flesh
hides where two walls meet;
my skin looks darker in the shadow.


Abelungu bayazidiliz’izindlu zethu,
whites are pulling down our houses.
I cannot know these words.
I have no right to speak them,
to echo a broken nation crying
in words I do not know,
Uph’owam utata?

Where is my own father?