Even if one day I woke up on a mule in my 40 acres
I would still be fighting you: Trump, Nixon, Reagan. My uncle would still be on the street. Picking up mechanical pencils, putting them in an old McDonalds bag. Shooting his veins with another find. Grandma would still be back to mattress, shaking, no kisses, wishing for tastebuds. Fatherless children would still be playing double dutch. Crossing their legs to remind themselves they close. John walking down the street (I’m only 15) takes his pick, separates profit from personality. Finds his American dream in human trafficking. Another body lets Jesus keep the secret of resurrection.
Even if you told me I was free
Poles would still reach from earth to sky keeping us institutionalized until the thought of no oppressor is blocked from the heavens. Your religion still blindfolding from rituals in the homeland. Someone would still proudly honor their ancestor’s European rapist. The children would still be speaking English, rubbing their hair until it fell straight down their back, asking mama which part of Africa they’re from. Mama silent, Mama welfare queen.
Even you knew 40 acres was too much of a promise