black lives matter

I know the location

but not the way

to where my own racism lives.

I was given a map,

in fact, I have been given many maps

and discarded each one.

Now, your names are the road

but when I am told

to stand and be treated as you are

in this country-

I don't.

And no one in their right mind stands.

So, when I can’t find the way, it’s

because I am already on the way,

(I couldn’t possibly be in the way)

I’m sure, almost sure, completely sure

I see character before color,

and I wave flag, post, and hashtag;

march safely in the middle, ache in my chest

for the unarmed, gravely mistaken- with

bullets in their chests.

And because of brown-skinned boyfriends;

because I was raised with Tupac and Biggie,

and Angela Davis herself

was in the 12th grade of my high school.

And because I was also raised by

Miss Nellie Murphy, black and southern,

whose white uniform did not matter to

6 year old me who thought she

was the for real kind of family.

And I broke finding out her love

and been paid for- an unearned

privilege among many.

Years later, when she died

(not with us)

I knew, because that night

that she came to my room and sat

solidly down on my bed; the same night

I prayed for the first time

and thought it was enough.

With a secret shame,

I have known this world is built

against you, and have said nothing.

Never finding what

I have been too privileged

& too white to look for.

My daughters are free- no guns

at their heads, thin arms bound,

skin on asphalt, knees on their necks.

Even if they commit the worst crimes.

Even then.

While on your daughters and sons

every gun is silently drawn,

every mother’s heart and father’s heart choked.

You can’t breath and I have said nothing.

This is the room of my racism.

So I am open handed and bare,

asking direction

imperfectly- like these words-

ready to arrive

with rags to wash the windows and floors,

a broom to sweep out the dust;

composting and burning

all it’s contents

into ash;

into dark, new earth.