on jan 7 2023, you were pulled over. but

the news doesn’t cover how your

skin was painted with a blissful shade of carob in the womb

how your legs mimicked the steps of riding a skateboard for the first time.

“You’ve got to put that skateboard down,” your stepfather would tell you. 

however, his words never made it to your hippocampus where it would recognized of it’s

importance. they don’t seem to mention how you began to trace the patterns of 

sunrise with your camera before you learned to walk.

and how your arm was stained with ink that had your mother’s name.

“Most kids don’t put their mom’s name. My son was a beautiful soul.”

she would say about you. she never thought words such as heinous,

violent, and deplorable would escape through her mouth to describe the way

you were used as a human pinata by those who looked like you.

the men that took your life are named Tadarrius Bean, Demetrius Haley,

 Emmitt Martin III, Desmond Mills, Jr. and Justin Smith.

all who were painted with a shade of brown, so sweet, when they 

were born. they turned ripe before you could flourish,

their dark, rotting stains making way through the flesh of their police badge.

the badge that they carry with honor, tracing the emblem with the deaths

of black people like you.

but the news doesn’t cover that, no. the news cover

how your legs that you used to kick an boost on your skateboard,

the legs that you ran alongside your son with, 

the legs painted with imperfect strokes of carob were your biggest weapon.

on jan 7, 2023, we remember you.