We’ve got to

dig dig dig
to find ourselves:
our histories and
our truths.

Like archaeologists
digging up
old homes and
forgotten bones.

We’ve got to
pull pull pull
At every thread 
that ties us
to our ancestries
our nationalities
our homelands. 
(But only up to a point.)
Because our threads
got all cut up
somewhere in the sea.

We’ve got to 
prove prove prove
to justify
our existence, 
and convince you 
not to fear us, 
but instead
take us serious.

We’ve got to 
sing sing sing
To quell the pain
That living brings
While being black 
or ignorant
or uppity
or ungrateful
or lazy: 
all the words 
you sear into 
our backs with 
a red, hot iron.

To keep us in line
and down and 
never too ambitious.
Because after all
what life has 
to offer you
was never meant 
for us.