Hot Buttered
You can have my cornbread and cornrows, dreads and flat twist. Even marry your Trish. All in my place go ahead add to my race. They will have my face, or skin. See them and me we kin. You will never find a way in. You can have a black friend, and rap on lend. That's music it blends. But Hip Hop is soul and that don't mold. You can keep Country that's fine ain't nobody clamoring for Shanie Twine.
But you flat out can not have my black and them there are just the facts.
Staffling Southner Heir
Nothing can fill the space that hollows me, the mystery that weeps down the willow tree. There waiting on me would be the character I was made to be. The cross that was forced upon me. The sail from a climate of summer to this thing called winter. The chatter about from unknown faces I could not figure but there was a reoccurring word, they called me Nigger.
These were new long days. Cooled by cracks through rotten boards in squares for slaves. Worked like cattle all day and half the night. Not viewed as humans so we had no rights. Everything in this new land was black and white. Feed of the masters scraps, awful and all, pigs’ feet and jowls no fowls just bowels.
I stopped looking for freedom cause for my kind it did not exist. I somehow survived in this southern cyst the hollows of America with clinched fist I coexist
Valet of my body, free will enslaved with back ridden, hard and fast like a horse without water, home or rest. Purchased because of bred and fullness of chest or breast. Me they would undress, and test my bodies limits. Molest to oppress and depress my blackness. In me they would lay nest, infest my womb with generations of hopelessness. They could care the less, once finished, they got up and got dressed.
Soon some of my kin would pass the skin test and advance to house arrest. Some would get as far as Northwest. The few that did possess protest, found progress but only in the abscess of presence. In mind, less. And to this day much of it remains in recess. Free now of all our righteous blackness we found the founding fathers success. Well god bless.
SAY IT LOUD!
I'm not your trick, nobody's ho or bitch. Neither nigga or nigger. It don't matter how you spell it, it's no embellishment.
I'm curated from a Negro spiritual, born of slaves besought from Africans graves. I answer to an English given "proper" name - named from generations of masters, seasoned slave owners. My forefather’s name was ripped from my ancestors, with whips, chain, rape and pain. I refuse to allow that to shape me, for I know who I be and Nigger nor bitch is she.
A many of “My” people are here not by free choice but under hellish brute force. A harsh course worst than that of herded horse.
My responsibility lays not only with me but to those who never were returned to "free".
I am more than a “girl”. I laid the tracks to your world. More than a lady or women, I am the backbone or your comfort. I birthed you with great discomfort.
I stand on shoulders and body parts of Afrikans that you made “black slaves”, so when my finger waves because you degrade, know that I am Not afraid to check you on that shit. You will respect this Miss, that I promise.
I am nobody's bitch and without a hitch I announce it. You are dismissed and the bottom of my ass you can kiss. You ignorant racism! Mental locked and loaded like a semi automatic with a hair trigger. I got your nigger.