my plates are
made of
“made in china”
stickers,
the soles of
my boots are
made of cardboard
and sometimes
tracks of
old men get left in
between the
dents of the
footprint.
this isn’t america
until you have
stood up
for the pledge,
marked your
territory as
superior because
it has a
whiteish
looking population.
all brown items
to be labeled as
colored,
all black items
to be labeled as
inferior,
all immigrated items
to be labeled as
trespassing aliens,
all white items
to be labeled as
the normal and the
good.
but the truth is
that chaotic
good dwells
in the creases
of their elbow,
to talk away
police’s
judgement
with charisma
and a fat
money clip,
the truth is
their
heels sit on the
porch
like a grandma
in the south watching
over her
slaves,
a breeze
tiptoes
indignantly
through her
southern
curtains.
a whisper
tiptoes
further
into the corn
field and
travels through
the ears of the
unjustified, the
wrong did, tingle
handed men and
women that
endure
beatings
beside their
bedside, a lampshade
could cringe
if ever witnessed
such violence.
this land is not
our land, it
was taken,
“america” should
establish that in
textbooks bought
by white men
to be given to
goodwill
teachers that are
unaware of the
damage
possessing
feverish,
tiptoeing,
wide-eyed
children.
the natives
aren’t
illegal,
the pilgrims
were.