A Poem from #handsupwalkout

It’s raining.

Here I am

Standing with a few hundred others

Hands up.

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,

yet today,

I don’t see them as lily white anymore.

Instead,

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

caked

with dried blood

that’s been dug

from this soaked Southern soil.

True,

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.

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