I am a Jamaican-Canadian eldest daughter to an immigrant mother
I am two wholes, not half of, not almost enough, I am more than.
Two homes in my heart that bleeds pomegranate juice
Two curl patterns on my crown that breaks combs and bends wills of confused hairdressers

I am hands dusted in flour, rolling dumplings in the scent of my family’s stories,
Tongue flipping between Patois and English, knowing home is built in the spaces between.
I am the pulse of 90s R&B and the hush of snow settling on tired streets,
Carrying the weight of my ancestor’s dreams, stitched into every step I take.

I learned resilience from palm trees and unbridled laughter,
Learned patience from waiting—on hope, on becoming, on belonging.
My childhood smelled like stew chicken bubbling, fresh cut mango, and library pages,
And sounded like the scribbling of pen on paper during long distance phone calls.

I feel most like myself in the quiet hum of creating
—scissors gliding, papers crumpling under my fingertips,
Or when I taste home in the softened bite of BBQ jerk chicken, the heat of ginger beer, the sweetness of maple glazed bacon.
Home is the way my name carries weight in my mouth, whole and unwavering.
It’s the way I trace my history in clay and collage, piecing together stories untold.

I am the echoes of ancestors who carved futures from cane fields and concrete,
The past and present stitched into me, unbroken, unbent.
I am two wholes, never divided—always enough.