scattered chips on a worn plate
grease ridden fish fillets smothered in crackling batter
peas that are turning murky grey and stale ketchup
carelessly trickled salt grains piercing plain white china
this is tradition, this is traditon.
humming love songs and stirring curry
the satisfying click of the rice cooker when it's finished
daal that greets your tastebuds like an urgent embrace
tender chicken that turns the tides of your tummy
this is culture, this is culture.
what do you say to the girl speckled with
biryani stains on her school polo shirt?
she owns a flag for a nation that's forgotten;
it is buried in gap year plans and money tip jars.
what do you say to the lost soul that detests
beef consumption and tattoos and infidelity?
she smears coronation day facepaint on her brown skin
red, white, blue- the colours of conflict and confusion.
which perspective should she adapt?
the one that's comfortable or a mixture of craked glass?