Some days I give him the finger as I pass,
ignoring his oil-based receding hairline,
the one that has been at low tide
since our twenties.

Other days, I drop my eyes,
not seeing his weird but natural
sun-and-dirt-stained skin on canvas pores,
shades of non-sequitur reds and browns
like a non-existent Cherokee ancestor
trying to speak through our flesh.

And still other days, I embrace the silence
lingering around his brushed on blue-eyed gaze,
like the one dinner we shared.
I sat on one end; he sat on the other,
and we talked only to those whose blood
was similarly hued. Never to each other.

White Grandfather stares at my homecoming.
His brow, like mine, rolls forward
over his eyes and dips deep in the center,
frozen there, above the fireplace,
hovering over the bricks
covered in white, oil-based paint.
I try to mirror his actions,
the ones that mean the most: every day,
for decades, pretend he doesn’t exist
and hate that red-brown skin.

Christian Hanz Lozada is the son of an immigrant Filipino and a descendent of the Confederacy. His heart beats with hope and exclusion. He co-authored the poetry book Leave with More Than You Came With from Arroyo Seco Press and the history book Hawaiian in Los Angeles. His poems and stories have appeared in Hawaii Pacific Review (Pushcart Nominee), A&U Magazine, Rigorous Journal, Cultural Weekly, Dryland, among others. Christian has featured at the Autry Museum, the Twin Towers Correctional Facility, and Beyond Baroque. He currently lives in San Pedro, CA where he uses his MFA to teach his neighbors’ kids at Los Angeles Harbor College.