We locked ourselves up; always have.

In ships, in ghettos, in little boxes.

Small spaces in which we can not breathe

Spaces in which we die.

Divided by faces and beliefs, voices and dances.

My people would not do that.

Oh, but you. But you.

You’re from over there.

I see what you’ve done,

I know what you want:

You want what I have.

My people would not do that.

There is a line.

Someone drew it.

Rattle that fence all you want.

Whack it with that chain.

See who comes.

See who cares.

My people would not do that.

We are always looking skyward

Seeking freedom.

We always want what is better, newer, some thing that is ours.

But reaching is hard when we are always standing in the fetid soil

That we have diseased:

Weighted, loaded, oppressed, shared

Blamed, hated.

All of us.

Distained, ignored, diminished,

Pushed in to corners, inside fences,

Killed with gas and bullets and hate.

My people would not do that.

Wrapped in chains.

All of us.

(Photo by Stephen Hickman, via Upsplash)