You speak of peace
from behind your television screen
as you watch us bleed.

Every few weeks, when a new hashtag breathes,
you tease us with your speeches
about the need for dialogue
while our mothers weep.

You have shown us
that the only Americans in this country
are the ones who don’t need a hyphen. 
But I know you will say different.
So, tell me:

What would it mean
to collectively watch the Super Bowl
with people who still want to
deport, cage, maim, and lynch you?

What would it mean
to sing to the same God
with the same saints who would just
send their prayers    like mail
or ask about your criminal record
and argue
if your unarmed corpse was dragged across the news?

- My America
 

(This poem is an excerpt from my debut book of poems, African-American.)

Cover Photo by Michael (Mikey) on Unsplash