You stand there

with your head held high,

hands deep in the pockets

Of glory and fortune

Taking credit

For the work my ancestors completed.

You stand there,

Smile on your face

Money lining your pockets

An ego more pronounced than a Southern accent,

For a job you’ve never done.

My father’s blood was one of slavery

One of war and conflict,

There’s benefits to tracing your line

You know that all too well,

Cause in the diaspora

You made sure we didn’t know our native tongues

But I know my dad’s blood,

My blood,

It came through the Caribbean

On boats,

It came to the Caribbean

In chains,

And you enjoyed it

You profited

You profited,

Off slavery.

Your hands may never have calloused

But your soul doesn’t exist

So what’s a body to you.

We were Caribbean slaves,

Remember, the ones who revolted and succeeded

That was us,

And now your descendants

Can profit off my ancestor’s work,

The work you take credit for,

While I write this for my fallen heroes:

I’m sorry

I’m sorry they didn’t know humanity

I’m sorry they didn’t know love

I’m sorry,

I got ya now,

Ya could rest now,

Sleep knowing I won’t let your memories perish,

Or be told by them,

Cause I love ya.


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