I am not the voice of slavery
A teller of tales
A weaver of words about clay men in shackles
I don't know their struggles
And can't tell you about their masters and first ladies
Whipping bodies and burying babies

I know nothing of wearing masks
Hiding myself because i can't be myself
Swinging a bloody fist towards a face of white
Pressed against a wall

I don't know a negro love song
Sympathy
And a posioned white house
Don't recall tales of my mother telling me about a crystal stair
Or wondering what would happen to my dream differed
And even though i've been through many winter sundays
I don't remember
Those winter sundays

I just never been to Harlem


I don't have a black paint brush
Swipping through tradition
Blacking out whitted literature

And come to think of it
I think my
Fists are too small
Delicate and gentle
To raise against oppression
I've never faught in my life
My scars are from being clumsy

Im not the owl of Baraka
Questiong who
A Dove dusting
Or ironing

My children aren't even here yet
My womb
Never been filled
Or even
Had a hint of life
I don't know nothing about no lost baby

Ain't been to no Tennesse
Had a bird that never beat its wing
My favorite color
Isn't
Even
Purple

I'm just that child
The bridge
Way after the builders
Boomers
and X's
I'm the girl with a pen
Who was bored in history class

Writing for voices that didn't know words yet
Writing for people who have something to say

Writing because it feels good
It feels
So
Good
To write