White Noise

"Thank God my son is white."

Is not a phrase anyone wants to utter.

But, God forgive me, I have.

In the back of my mind

Under my breath

Sitting in front of the television

As I watch another black man killed

While the only right of his we defend

Is the right to remain silent.

Two nights ago, I dreamt of a black mother

Handing me photo after photo of her lost children

Pictures drawn in ragged crayon

Love letters written by innocent little hands

All I could do was weep

As she begged me

"Please, tell their stories."

But, God forgive me. 

I must confess, 

I'm afraid of what they'll say.

These children grow up

We give them school supplies

Food for Thanksgiving 

Coats for the winter

We convince ourselves that our benevolence carries them

That we are doing God's work

That we are building a better future for the poor

Until they no longer look innocent to us.

Until they're criminals for wanting simply to survive.

These men are full of grit

Mistaken for grime.

"Thug" "animal" "up to no good"

This rhetoric might as well be handfuls of dirt

Thrown on top of their caskets

Brothers and sisters, this place has seen far too many graves

Dug by our idle hands

And as the saying goes, Idle hands 

Are the handiwork of the devil.