My father has tilled the soil of White supremacy.

With his own two hands, he has sewn the seed of rebellion,

Brought up the crop until it shone gold like the skin of my ancestors,

And milled it,

So it could be given to me.

 

My father produced the wheat. Slashed the sugar cane. Raised the chickens and cows.

He shook the walnuts from their trees, put the cocoa beans out to dry,

And laid them at my feet.

He has provided me with more than teaspoons and half-cups.

 

He makes sure my house will always carry the aroma of freshly baked bread.

A scent he could smell from out in the fields

And he has lit the fire in the hearth

So as to draw my people home

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He has grown enough for all of us

So that we might not fall into the jaws of hunger and lose sight of each other.

I hope one day to trade places with him.

Let him sit peacefully by the fire we have built together,

And look out across the world that he has overcome.

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