If Racism Was a Natural Disaster
It’d be a drought,
the cracked ground we walk on,
the beating sun pushing us down.
“But it rained a couple of times,”
they tell us, while the heat
is scorching our skin
and dust is in our eyes.
“Get over it,” they tell us
from their green, watered lawns.
We sit in the sun, baking for generations,
waiting for the forever rain,
no trees to protect us.
The trees were never there to protect us.