Thank You

A poem to my black son-in-law

My parents never had to give me “the talk”
about traffic stops.
I’ve never been afraid to jog alone
In my neighborhood.
I’ve never had to beg for air.
I’ve never trembled
at the trauma in my heritage,
the shadow of a black man
hanging from a branch
like strange fruit.
I’ve never endured
racial slurs shouted
from pickup trucks
with Confederate flags
and gun racks in the back.

Am I responsible for the sins
of my fathers?
We’ve appropriated your gospels,
Jazz grooves and rap anger,
sold you on a slave block,
branded you as our property,
bloodied your back
with a bullwhip,
turned firehoses and dogs
on your freedom fighters,
denied your right to vote,
considered you three-fifths of a man,
swindled you with five acres
and a mule,
barred you from schools,
spit in your face,
kept you segregated
from water fountains
and hidden in jails.

The past still rots
at the core of society.
I lack words of reconciliation,
I’m too proud to turn from my wrongs.
Surely, you are to blame
as much as me?
Riots and angry chants
only fuel the flames,
or is there something
I need to hear?
Does my fear
burn my denial
to the ground?

Thank you for your grace and forgiveness.
Thank you for standing tall, unbroken and proud.
Thank you for the African drums
pounding in your heart.
Thank you for kindling Martin’s dream
in the contexts of your life.
Thank you for loving my daughter.
Thank you for letting me look
in your eyes and acknowledge you
as a man made in the image of God.

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