Black History Front

Poem about February

Photo by Oladimeji Odunsi on Unsplash

They try to reduce our history to a month…
I can’t believe it.

As if all the things
we’ve been achieving
could be reduced to 28 days…

29 if we’re lucky.

Even when blessed,
“black” people end up with less.

Every other month,
had too many days I guess.

Every four years,
we’re under duress.

Here comes another prez
with promises they never respect.

Take a leap of faith to expect
them to help take this noose off our neck.

Give us platitudes.

Tell us to show gratitude.

For any acknowledgement.

Made the shoes this land walks in,
they still want us to polish them.

Meanwhile,
my toes get froze
from being exposed
to the harshest of elements.

But MLK loved America…

That’s what they tell the kids.

No.

He loved the potential
that was never fulfilled.

White wash his words,
smooth over why he was killed.

In cold blood…
his innocence had been spilled.

Because our people were tired of footing the bill
for US success,
and started making the press,
protesting how we were repressed.

And yall still giving us less.

They do their best to stress,
“Look, y’all have a month…
Oh man, y’all are blessed!”

A month is supposed to impress?
What about the other eleven?

Oh man, this disrespect.

This country’s history doesn’t exist,
without dark skin.

But we’ve become marked with,
not a highlighter….

They cover us with a dark pen.

Our lives are brighter than hardships.

But they start our history,
hands tied up on hard ships.

When we used to be kings and queens
and build things so amazing,
they try to blame it on starships.

How come history can’t be written by our lips?
Act like our achievements are blips.

Like 1 in a 100.
Or maybe 1 in 12.

After February,
it’s scary.
What are the odds of a white kid
taking that black author back off the shelves?

One month y’all made formal,
ain’t gon cut it.

For real.