My God-Father, Injustice, Is Not Dead

March 3, 2017
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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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