You say dying is only bad when it’s by disease 

but we hear gunshots every day where i’m from 

these black bodies that flood my streets 

are seeping into the voids 

of the pavement cause this 

black don’t crack 

it’s just there 

and it fills you up 

and makes you whole again. 

 

My privileged friend asked me why the kids in my neighborhood don’t know how to read 

 

the kids in my neighborhood have seen more blood 

on the sidewalks

than they have seen words in a book– 

the only thing they know how to read is 

save us written in the blood of my ancestors. 

 

They see you privileged friend 

and wonder what a celebrity is doing in this run down town 

they see you privileged friend

and wonder why you don’t give back to the streets you buy from 

they see you 

ready to knock down the homes that their ancestors have lived in for thousands of years

and 

pray 

that gentrification never consumes them

but you my friend 

refuse to acknowledge the sacred grounds you killed my ancestors on. 

 

Police man 

this letter to you isn’t just a letter 

but a plea to let my brother go before you catch him–

i watched men in my family get ripped out of their homes

and get spat on.

 

Dear mother 

if my brother doesn’t come home tonight 

i am sorry

i know your plan was to have him in bed 

not a casket 

how do i let you know that 

i couldn’t protect him

when he was a boy trying to be a man 

in place of the empty shoes his father left for him to step in.

 

Dear young black man 

who finds it hard to breathe when you are walking in a place you are uncomfortable in 

when you are handed the odd ends of oppression

and no way to ask for help 

come to me 

please 

i want to see your diploma 

not your death certificate.