Some poems are truly meant to be heard instead of read and this is one of these poems. I recommend listening rather than reading but I am including the written form for accessibility.
Who I am has been stolen
Left with slave food I never learned to cook
Hearing clicks combined with poor white grammar
a southern accent.
I dance the dances of the Harlem renaissance
That looks like a dance for the Lwa,
That looks like the freak,
That looks like the tango,
That looks like dirty dancing,
That looks like the tootsie roll.
I danced those dances to keep my ass brown,
instead of black and blue
Stolen by white men with gunpowder and salt
Stolen by the plantation owners name
Stolen by the drugs of my father
The depression of my mother
The secrets of my grandmother
The schooling of the institution
the hate of children
I have no culture
I appropriate the white mans language.
I appropriate the French art.
I appropriate the slave dances.
I appropriate my stretched ears,
My Italian cooking,
My English lit,
My Asian ethics,
My German psychology
My Indian religion.
Only fear is my own
My loss was appropriated long ago