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My God-Father, Injustice, Is Not Dead
He is shades of blood red and blue-black bruises.
He is bleeding hands
That don’t realize when they’ve held onto the whip too tightly.
He is taller than laws.
I am love and oppression.
I am culture and appropriation.
I am weight on
my grandparents’ back,
My mother’s only chance at graduating.
I am strength
And power.
He is giant feet made specifically to destroy me.
I am a community filled with supporters
As real as my sister’s wig.
I am the desire to excel when those around me
pin me down.
I am working class, cracks
on my back.
He is hands hungry to knock me down.
I am pessimism.
I am the wage gap.
I am the illegal immigrant.
I am “People of color can be racist.”
Racism is racist.
I am disgusted.
I am water racing
down my cheeks.
They hold their purses closer when they see me.
I am scared of police.
I am advancement.
Advancement that isn't but is retrogression.
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