A Poem from #handsupwalkout
Here I am
Standing with a few hundred others
Please don’t shoot.
We are black, white, brown, every color in between
I look at my raised hands.
I’ve studied every inch of them before,
I don’t see them as lily white anymore.
they might as well be coated red.
No matter how much of an ally I try to be,
I am still so complicit.
I will always drown in my own privilege.
My hands are
with dried blood
that’s been dug
from this soaked Southern soil.
I have no idea what my ancestors did or did not do,
But the truth is
I am white in the South
and that’s enough.
I can raise my hands as high as I want
Nobody’s going to shoot me, after all.
I can be fairly sure of that.
Under this rain,
I feel like a murderer at a funeral.