To the white woman with the big heart

They all mean well, I guess.
(or at least love to believe so)
I mean she holds me like i'm still untouched
like my room is full of barbies
and I still haven't figured out how to cook.
she calls me sweetheart, honey, magic
and I'll be damned if I pretend I don't love it,
if all her love isn't my heaven.. but,

she doesn't wear this hair, nor this off white skin, nor this nose or this rage. she's not the in between like I am-
somewhere to what is know as half slave, half master
and yet full foreign, full exotic, never just beautiful
she's not there when the white old lady in the supermarket dips her fingers into my scalp full force, like I still belong to her. she isn't there when the marketing teacher shows the video of the perception of what is beautiful around the world
- over 85 countries and never do they make the girl in the video black.

She loves me as I am, I know she does.
but she isn't there,
when the boys only ask me to come through
the backdoor she isn't there. when people remind me that I'm the immigrant and that I should shut up, she isn't there..
when my mother tells me that
I'd be prettier with a finer nose and no curls
she isn't there..

she loves me though,
and I love too, I love her a lot
But love isn't always the answer, isn't always the cure, can't always be the band aid for wounds that need stitches.