You May Die (In America)

My dear child. My gift to you: life. It is an abundant life. With a soul. A soul that shines. But warning: You may die.

You may die. Under my sun, on my Earth, in the soil I planted you, little baby. Baby, unborn. You don’t know. You kick now. But the world kicks back. It may hurt til you cry. Dreams unfulfilled. You may die.

I know your tuition is due and you’re fresh out of school because it’s closed down and you’re working for meals with a smile on your face and a frown on your face and your hands are in your pocket and your hands are the in the air with tears and rage and fear and joy in your eyes with your face on the pavement while it’s on TV, facing Mecca, praying to me, mouthing Inshalla, minding your business, whistling or ignoring or engaging someone, just engaged to someone, driving your car you crashed, riding shotgun, walking home, phoning home because the kids are home and there’s a child on the way, so you grab your wallet and there’s money in your wallet but there’s lint in your pocket and you’re looking like daddy and you’re looking like mama and you’re looking like grandma and you’re looking like Martin and you’re looking like Malcolm and you’re looking like Marcus and you’re looking like Jesus. At church.

You may die.

With a cross on your neck and a tie on your neck and arms on your neck and ropes on your neck with pride and shame and change in your heart and people, good, and evil on your mind.

There’s love, power, and curses in your words with me in your soul under whoever on your shirt with darkness on your heels. There are dogs on your pants and scars on your arms and gold is on your watch and gold is in your mouth and pearls are in your mouth and blood is in your mouth and you have a clean record and there’s dirt in your past and not just because your parents are in your life and not in your life. You have Skittles in your hand, with defense in your stance and confusion on your face. I hear the panic in your cries and see the terror in your punches, the frustration in your sighs, the tremors in your voice, and defiance in your choice.

When they draw, leaving a bloody canvas on the asphalt; what kind of picture are they painting? The kill continues with the assassination of character when they roll footage and edit your life in snippets and headlines to fit the frame of suspect, not victim.

But I can ID you. Your nose and eyes and lips and hair and skin, your known and unknown heritage. Your experience. The stars in your soul. The gold in your potential, the brass in your strength. You’re bigger than a victim, much more than a description, and caption and a fraction. With wealth within your being you’re being targeted for the riches that I have instilled. Ignore the ignorance and ignorant ignoring your brilliance. My child, my reflection, the Creator’s creation beaming: Don’t let them tell you what I have created you to be. Don’t let them take what you have inherited. Don’t allow them to rip the life from you.

In the land of the free. In the summer. In the city. You may die.

And your name and essence will ring through hearts and memories of those who hold onto you.

But you deserve life.

And you deserve an answer to the question: Why?

Fight.