emanuel
Yes, Sir, I am calling in sick because my people are dying on their knees with their hands in the air, praying to a god who prefers white skin; and the last time we went to church, we found our pastor’s blood in the communion wine but unlike God he did not turn into bread; and the last time we dipped our hands in holy water, an officer shoved us in and choked us under until the water turned black; and the last time we tried to breathe, an arm clamped around our neck and forced us to the ground so we could hear our lungs explode in our collapsing chest; and the last time we tried to stand up straight, our spine snapped in two,
and when we tried to run, our back ate four bullets, our heart ate one, and when we asked to be buried in that same little town, a pale-skinned terrorist carried out the will of God;
and maybe, maybe I could make it to work, but I’m afraid to leave my house because corpses hang from every tree: corpses from a hundred years ago, corpses from a hundred years from now, corpses from this morning, stripped of their names, swinging in a stale white wind; and you expect me to act normal, to smile wide and assure you that my people are just exaggerating about our own bullet wounds, but even Uncle Tom died at his master’s feet; so, Sir, I am incredibly sorry to inconvenience you, but my people are dead and my heart is sick, and I’ll need a lifetime just to cut down these trees.