My hair was platinum blonde,

Long, whispy and waistlength,

My complexion fair,

Yet in life, I spoke with a Jamaican accent,

In my mind,

I considered myself a native Jamaican,

But the reality was,

My father was an Irish man,

My mother was as lilly white as can be,

So in death how can you label me, "Black"

Black is the color of soot,

I don't know any human beings who resemble that,

There are people of color,

Of whom I've loved and known well,

But there story is not mine,

I am the only one who can tell,

As I lay in my six foot grave on this vast Pedro Estate,

My heart is bereaved because you labeled me unfairly,

My parents scoff at your indignity,

Mr. M.E. what have you done to me?

My dead brothers think you have dishonored my heritage,

You have betrayed my relatives,

Mr. M.E. how could you have done this to my family?

I dare say that this has been a travesty..............

A plea from beyond the grave.