What is it, Baba?

Is it the scar on my face, Baba
or is it the bloodstains on my clothes
that they look at me with fear?

Is it my praying in Arabic when jittery
or the ‘R’s not rounded in my ‘hungry’
that they deny me bread when I seek?

Is it your beard Baba, is it Mama’s hijab
or is it the ragged doll in my hand
that they peer at before slamming their door?

(Baba and Mama are the Arabic way of calling father and mother lovingly)

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