Colors (A Working Title)

He says he's replacing the Confederate Flag on his desktop With a picture of Me. I proceed to wonder if I should explain the irony of this, Or let him roll over comfortably in his quilted ignorance. See, He will never know that those two words the "C" in Confederate and the "F" in Flag dancing a Mockingly innocent Jive would be the fuel to the jet of Rib shuddering tears Fierce whispers And battle cries of love. That in the early hours if the morning Helpless brokenhearted word after Helpless brokenhearted word would not really be about us at all. But about Shackles, and Chains. Bloody Feet, and Wrists. Dark skin shot with plum-colored Bruises about Terrorized Screams a defiled and brutalized Seams. Mothers and Sisters, Torn from Daughters. Sons and Brothers, Torn from Fathers. Dances of Greeting, turned to Dances of Fleeing, turned to Incessant Bleeding, and My body Quakes, With the phantom whip-lashes of brutal Black-Lashing Punishment For being at the wrong place at the wrong time for Trading in Bows and Spears in for Gunpowder and coins and He, With the Red White & Blue across his back, Carrying our nation's Pride across his back, Will never know that, When we stand side by side on the alter, White skin clothed in Black and Brown skin clothed in White, that those very same Mothers and Fathers will be watching and he Will never know that, Every time our fingers slip through one another like White Cotton Strings on Brown Wooden Looms that Hundreds of years of Oppression will have not ended that the Real Oppressors are non other than Ourselves that we have Only to let go and He, Will never know that, Just as my ancestors feet will stomp, And their bodies shake, And their heads gyrate at the sight of Brown Skin replacing a Flag the Color of their Blood I will Rejoice; Every time He looks at me and says-- "Baby...I love you."