(1995-2012)
In America, you see, there is nothing
that we lack. We work, we rise;
we are all free. Kick your heels up!
Paint the town! unless you happen to be black—
in which case, better quiet down
and be prepared to show your hands.
You can buy Skittles and iced tea,
walk freely through the neighborhoods—
unless you happen to be black,
in which case, some puffed-up quack
can put a bullet in your chest
and leave you—seventeen, facedown,
dying in manicured green grass
he did not like you walking on
because you happened to be black,
young, and male within a gated town
that wasn’t.
When you get up
to Heaven’s gate, and get to thinking,
gazing down, about the country
you just left, whether it was bad or good,
I tell you, Trayvon: Ask around.
See if those who claim it’s good
and died peaceful in their beds at night
mostly happen to be white,
and those who turn away, distraught,
who strain their eyes down through the cloud
scanning for safety still unfound,
happen to be brown and black.
And if you see that other fresh-faced kid
who had a sweet tooth like your own,
and sauntered jaunty into town?
Ask Emmett what his Money bought.
It was not a graduation gown.
