Uncategorized, written arts

Written Arts: To My Black Child

Hands up, don’t shoot.
Every time I see
a black man die
I see you.

I see her,
I see him.
My babies of tomorrow
are them, him, her, them.

Tamir Rice.
He could be my son one day.
Are my kids even allowed to play?
That’s how I used to play?

I guess that’s different.

Please don’t end up like
Trayvon Martin.
Not the thug he was
perceived to be.
By media and people
who look like me.
The young dead boy
is what I mean.


From a white mother
to her black child.
I wish I could take away your pain.
Just please don’t run away.

Just don’t
make that face.
Speak your mind
Take your time.
Talk real loud.
Keep your head up high.
Walk too fast.
Wear your hood.
Defend yourself from a man
following you home.
Don’t reach for your wallet fast
they’ll shoot you just like that.
Please just leave the store
when they follow you row after row.
Don’t make a scene
even if the mess isn’t on you
because it will be soon.

You might be told
“You’re not black”.
Don’t you ever believe that.
You’re black enough
for them to crack.

Your daddy knows.
Just ask him.
He is you.
You are him.

To my future child,
this is for you.
I don’t know you yet,
but I still think of you.


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