Black men dying at the hands of the very men who violently removed us from everything we called home before we were weaned from our mother’s breasts. Where can we be black? Because even in the land of our forefathers we are living as strangers, paying for a place to lay our heads with our lives. Paying with our blood, sweat and tears. How many more brothers do we have to bury? How many mothers have to kneel at the graves of their children, feeling each contraction as justice is something that is spoken of in whispers.
Who will speak for the man who travelled by boat to find nothing but pain waiting at the shore? Who will speak out for the generations of children born in sheds, belonging to a master that rules with whips and chains. We stand above their graves, tracing their lineage on the scars on their backs. The oceans they had to travel a haunting sound filling the spaces left behind by their absence.
Where is home? Child of Africa, who welcomed visitors in your shores who came and erased everything you knew about yourself. Now you read your reflection in books filled with pale figures whose radiance cowers at the harshness of the sun. Your skin knows what it means to absorb light, do not let them call you an abnormality.
Your melanin is proof that God attaches himself to the parts of you that no man can erase.