Funeral

Dear Mother,

I don’t want a fancy funeral.

I don’t want a coffin made of stained oak wood so glossy you can see your own tears.

I don’t want soft lining that my corpse won’t feel. I don’t want your sobs to echo through an open sanctuary as their gods’ stained glass smile beams down

No

And Father,

I don’t want to wear a suit.

Bury me in the shirt they shot me in.

The plain white tee that Mr. officer so kindly turned into a Yeezy shirt.

Its poetic that I will die in clothes that I couldn’t afford to live in.

And make sure you put my hands up so the minister can see where bullets crucified me as I tried to swat them away like mosquitoes that don’t drink the blood they drew from my skin.

And please

Don’t let #blacklivesmatter come to my funeral. Because where black lives matter goes,

All lives matter follows

and I don’t want my sister to ask why people are protesting my funeral.

People who are quick to say “all lives matter”  but don't give a fuck about refugees of countries we bomb with drones

or the small asian children that build our phones

or the migrant workers that toil in our soil or the Native Americans losing their land over oil.

But they scream blue lives matter,  

like blue lives don’t murder,

like blue lives exist,

like they can’t take off that uniform,

like I can, take off my skin.

How do you tell me I don’t matter?

All I want to say is that they don’t really care about us.

And Speaking of Michael Jackson,

please,

Sing no hymnals at my funeral.

Only Old Negro spirituals that our Old Negro Spirits will recognize and harmonize with,

I want you to lead me to them.

Lift every voice and sing me bye and bye the listening skies and stormy seas

please,

Take me to the king.

And leave me there.

Do not put me on a T-Shirt,

Have no wish to be a fashion statement.

Hold no marches in my name,

I don't want them to step on it.

Don’t complain to the media,

I have no desire to be a hashtag.

Don't even remember who I am.