There’s a way the tongue bends,
folds like paper into origami shapes
whenever I say \"tomato\" instead of \"tom-ah-to.\"
How a single vowel can open
a door or slam it shut.
In classrooms, they taught us language
was a bridge, but no one said bridges
often come with toll booths or gates.
No one warned me that dialects
can be passports or handcuffs.
My grandmother couldn’t say \"thorough,\"
rolled her R’s like a secret she couldn’t keep.
Her accent braided the past into the present,
made songs of syllables I flattened
into obedience in school halls.
We split ourselves like kindling, inch by inch—
which side of the river did you grow oen?
Was it petrol or gas? Sofa or settee?
We wore our words like badges,
or buried them with quiet shame.
Each phrase I utter becomes a fingerprint,
a map of where I belong and don’t,
a quiet chord strummed between
acceptance and misunderstanding.
Even silence becomes a shibboleth.