Racism,
within the heart,
shines through the souls of the white men.
Breathed into them
from the Devil's lips.
But it's you
who stands on a tall throne of bones
of the Africans chained together and pushed
off the decks of slave ships
to lessen the weight of cargo;
to lessen the number of mouths to feed;
to keep the exotic goods somewhat healthy to sell-off
as soon as the land kisses the bow.
So, I can't blame the women who decided on their own fate
as they took their newborn infants with them.
Effortlessly falling over, while clutching their naked baby in their arms
granting them both undeniable freedom
as cold waters parted to swallow them whole.
But it's the fact that
you've foreseen this long before,
when you created this forsaken world of hatred and death.
And you watched it happen, chanting, "Free Will, Free Will"
as countless of ships took the Middle Passage
the Triangular Trade
Slave Trade
taking every which way,
just to scatter us everywhere.
God, how could we ever forgive you?
The only witness to the crimes committed against me
simply because of a skin color you created to be hated.
Why
does my skin have to be the threatening weapon—
the gun tucked not-so-discreetly in the back of my pants—
that caused that white woman
sitting next to me at the library
to clutch her purse, flinch every time I moved, until
she finally got up and moved;
feet possessed by Jesse Owens.
The weapon that told the Islamic owner of the corner store, to follow me
or that group of black boys that walks into the store.
Trailing the stench of ignorance to racism obtained from hours at the basketball court,
and this Islamic man
a minority just like the rest of us
can't help but stay alert, walking from behind his caged counter
to follow them.
Watching their hands like a child
trying to understand a magician's magic trick
only to discover it's all a scam.
So no, God, your insolent cries of a desperate need to be coddled,
to still feel used and accepted by your people that you created to kill each other,
no longer sits well with me.
YOU ARE READING
Part 1
PoetryThis is the first half of my poetry book that explores half of my identity, being black. This includes all of the good and bad, where I can really show the culture of Black America as I've learned and lived.
