For George (Poem)

I. Can. Not. Breath.
Because your knee is on my neck.
And your heel is on my back.
And the more I try to break free and be great,
You stump me down and tell me I’m still a slave.
Yes 200 years have went by and we had a black man in office but that was just a pity toss.
So that we would sit down and shut up.
So you could pat yourself on the back
And sleep a little better at night and tell yourself “I’m not a racist.”
But you are.
You are when you are quiet and calloused to the repetitive atrocities that keep happening to black men in America.
When you bury your head deeper in the comfortable quaintness of golf outings and tea parties, shopping sprees and fake body. Parts.
And to the church.
Where have you been?
Because now your sudden upheaval over George let’s me know you do have a voice.
But why did you not use it before? For Trayvon or Mike or Ahmad and so many more?
But I digress.
The truth is you don’t want to see.
You would rather walk blindly in a slew of delusional hypocrisy.
You say America is the land of opportunity.
But what you fail to realize is that the very constitution that said we all had rights, only meant those rights were for someone who looked like you.
And even today when you navigate the world you never once think about the color of your skin. But I do.
I have to wonder will I face discrimination today when I go to the dentist office?
Will the doctor treat me with the best level of care if my skin doesn’t look like theirs?
And I make sure to use the language you’ll understand.
That proper language.
That king’s language.
But that was when I could speak, because right now I can’t even breathe.
And my lack of breath is not due to some virus.
No.
Because contrary to the coronary report my death will not come from natural causes or earthly means.
Instead my life will be eaked out slowly, on the concrete, prematurely.
Senselessly.
From some ignorant ass man’s knee.

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