the migration

I was born with a hand forming a fist 

That held ambition. 

even before I was welcomed into the world 

I knew how to fight with my words. 

Even before I was lifted into my mother’s hands 

I was destined for greatness. 

And although I’d struggle with my identity, 

I realized that melanin clothed me  

And I wasn’t about to strip because  

Some didn’t like what I wore. 

The truth is though, 

having my blackness questioned struck a chord, 

And a bitter melody bloomed within me  

Unheard before. 

So I wrote out this tune. 

I took the fist I was born with and wrapped it around a pen. 

At the time, I could not turn my shame into sentences 

My emotions could not agree with 

Subject verb agreements 

So I broke my thoughts up into fragments. 

Saw nonsensical truth spit on a page, 

But pushed it away like my pride, I was ashamed of it. 

Although I didn’t know how to  

Lyrically translate these feelings inside 

I continued to fight. 

Like even today, when I bow my head during the call to pledge  

I think of how it wasn’t just petty politics that got us to this point. 

And instead of standing 

I listen to the boldness rising in my chest 

and raise the fist I was born with in defiance, 

Without explanation. 

Cause the ignorant do this thing where 

They cover their eyes with the nation’s flag 

And complain they don’t see the problem.  

They say that  

Mass black incarceration isn’t me 

That police brutality isn’t me 

That those black bodies aren’t me 

So why should I be worried? 

The repetition of question like these  

Caused me to write again 

And eventually I learned to  

personify my passions 

Alliterate my anger 

Make metaphors out of my ideas. 

And this writing turned to performance. 

I no longer hide the words that people need to hear 

Right here 

I spit truth hoping it reaches ears 

It was in here that I bottled up their black hate  

And exchanged it for the fist I was born with.