For those who tell us to go home.
This IS my home,
for sea to shining sea
flows with the blood
and sweat of stolen lives,
our eyes swollen with
tears and fears.
They grip me at night, urging me to
take flight,
screaming and begging
me to return
to where my soul can roam
freely, to
where my Black is
beautiful and valued.
But this is MY home,
here in states stitched
together by the never-ending
rope used to lynch me.
Constant reminders of your self-hate
burn in the Rushmore of lies.
Privilege lurking
as weapons of mass destruction.
Obstructions of justice
provide you
the corruption of might.
And still, my soul? It flows through
foundations of houses
so white
they glow.
Oh, say you can see!
Say you can see the blood
strewn across Glory, Old,
and stained with guilt
as it waves.
THIS IS MY HOME
every amber wave of grain is owed
to the ancestors of brown faces,
with scarred backs
healing in the light of the rising sun.
A new day has begun.
Let us march on ’til victory is won
and we can be free
in
Our Home.
(c) 2016 Kristina Daniele. All rights reserved.
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