Made in China,
nurtured in London.
I parade a toy town
in China Town,
picking up oranges with exotic names.
Fruit sellers with ‘painfully British’
on their passports.
I am British, quarter Chinese.
I still window shop at Chinese buffets;
I’m not the one serving the pompoms to customers.
Smelling the aromas of special festivities
which I do not celebrate.
I wonder if dishes come with rice.
Separate plates,
onion bhajis in napkins.
It comes as a culture shock,
the sore sight of Hollister bags
when I’m keen to embrace
my Chinese surname.
Authentic lanterns dress the smart
second apartments
of ritzy inhabitants.
I accompany the image of businessmen
and women,
the starkness of their tailored suits.
I encourage the divide –
cultured individuals and factory-made Brits.
I point out the double barrel in the register.
Left or right and I return to a traffic light.
The disruption of road works
finished yesterday,
tomorrow.
Cars discharging exhaust gases
crossing waters to nuisance ice caps
for my Chinese relations.
Made in China Town,
England.
