To My Eighth Great-Grandparents, Who Were Bakongo

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I don't know your names,
and I have no right to give you
misnomers, as other people did.

I'm also afraid to ask you
to talk to me through a l̶i̶m̶i̶n̶a̶l̶ luminal space.
Maybe I will misunderstand.

I want to watch you step out of the shadows —
I want to know more.

I think of the history that wasn't preserved,
of everything that was lost,
of every secret joy that was left behind,
of every pot that was left boiling,
of every child that cried for a mother or father
who wasn't coming home —

and I feel like I have a thorn in my side
that I don't know how to pull out safely.

I cannot fathom the burdens of other people,
I cannot claim their pain as my own.
Even attempting to understand
has put my brain and my stomach in knots —
the pain must run deep.

It isn't my right to know all of your secrets —
oh, but I wish I knew more.
All of the knowledge that's been withheld
is just another burden we share.

This pain that we share is a pain that
connects us —
separated by centuries and by an ocean,
we are still in communion with each other.

Or I would like to be

I can acknowledge you,
and I can acknowledge that
that still isn't enough.

Maybe it is enough for me
to know that you existed.
Just to be able to remember you,
just to know what we've lost.

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