B is for black, And B
as in B for blood,
The very same as runs
Under your very white skin.
Black, as in B for burnt,
At the stake by your history’s
Crimes against us,
Writing lies with white ink.
Hunted, because white is better,
Like a picture book in a child’s study.
Painted as a petty criminal,
Because colored can do no better.
So hunt me till I’m down to none,
And lay me open for all to see,
That I was not the same as you,
And my sun-kissed skin had to bleed.