No Citizen

My birthplace is not my home.
I came from here
But my identity is not here.
I have no blood here
And I've shed no blood here.
This is a dot on the map
And is incidental to
My identity.

My home is a few hundred miles
Down this red rock road.
I come from these dusty cotton fields.
My people wore home spun.
My grandma labored in her hot kitchen
Snapped beans on the front porch
And drank Dr. Pepper at 10, 2 and 4.
My grandpa teamed dray mules
In pole barns
And turned these clods into crops.
He fished in the St. Francis
And cooled watermelons in its stream.

My dad went to war from the depot
In this town
Came home three years later
And married my mom
After getting the blessing from 
Grandpa.
That's how we do things down here.
 
The bodies and bones of my kin
Rest here
And a few still clutch the Stars and Bars
In their bony grip.

So when you ask me where I'm from
I'll tell you quick.
No, sir. 
I'm no citizen there.