Guess Who?

This poem is for me.  But its also for Camillia, who made me realize it needed to be written.  Thanks Cam, you gave me the opening word.  I started taking a Creative Writing Poetry class this semester and it was honestly one of the best decisions I ever made at TSU. 

Love.

You don’t have to be in love with someone to have love for someone.

I love you.

I loved you. 

It wasn’t the gushy roses and chocolates love,

but I cared for you so deep.  I felt for you.  I cared……

Isn’t that love?

I knew it was over after the call.

You Facetimed me. 

Playful.  I was mad, but you always know how to break me down.

Make me melt.

Make the anger fade away.

I’m into you.  All in.

So we’re vibing. Playing.  And I’m praying that you come over.

You say you’re down the street

Good.  I’ve got you.

“Please step out of the vehicle.”

What?

No. They’ve got you.

My heart starts to flutter.  My brown skin turns pale. 

My palms are sweaty and I can barely exhale.

Your skin is too dark.  Your dreads are unkempt. 

You’re in the perfect neighborhood

for a murder.

The area is rough,

and police are known for doing target practice on black men who look just like you.

You know like antelopes to the lions, black men are the prey of white officers.

Hands up, don’t shoot, but regardless of where your hands are, you still pose a threat.

So guns still get drawn and you still beg, but regardless of your words, they’ll still kill you dead.

Too many have dropped, and their murders still walk

While our community screams “how many will be enough?”

“Please step out of the vehicle.”

“May I ask why officer?”

Shut up and listen to him.

Comply.

Be polite.

Move slow.

And always remember I’ll never let go.

I’ll stay on the phone.  Paralyzed with fear, but hoping you feel safe knowing that I am near.

You’re well spoken.  Calm and collected.

Almost as if this was expected.

Have you done this before?

How many times?

How many times have you been wrongly convicted of crimes?

As you ease out of the car, you never hang up.

I’m here.  Do you want me here?  Do you need me here?

Are you afraid?

What’s this like for you?

Because here I am petrified.  Going crazy.  In all honesty I feel like I’m acting correctly in this situation, and you’re just calm…..

The officer wants to search the car.

But you haven’t done anything.

You don’t have anything.

You’ll be fine.

By now I’m screen-recording.  Documenting every possibility of foul play.

Foul play?  In your murder?  No erase that thought, throw it away.

This will not be how you spend your last day.

Click.

What? You hung up? He hung up!

Come back!

In a matter of moments, I was just looking at you, now my world has gone from whim to whack.

Come back!

Come back!

Your name can’t be added.

Not to the list.

Not to the list of dead black men dearly missed.

Come back!

Come back!

Time passes.  I’m a wreck.

I’ve googled jail bookings, your name never appears.

I’ve called friends, my mom, your friends, everyone.

You can’t be dead.  You can’t be.

A thought:  I’ll call you.

Will you answer?  Maybe not.

In seconds you answer. Oh.

You’re fine, you’re good.

When was I to be notified?

You don’t understand why I’m upset.

I breathe and inside I scream:  I love you.  You could have died.  I cried and paced and drafted courtroom statements in my head to protest

Your murder.

Don’t you know you could have died?

Don’t you care?

Scream.

Cry.

Bat an eye.

Do something to show me that we connect.

That we connect on the fact, that I am black and you are black and black people have to worry about cancer, and heart failure and traffic stops.

Random pull overs.

Those “please step out of the vehicle”s

Don’t you know you could have died?

Don’t you care?

You had someone who was there and you did nothing.

To this day I still don’t know how you got away.

How you got out of it.

Why he let you go.

Your trauma has closure.

You know exactly what happened after I went blank.

A closure I’ll never know, and you’ll never tell me so I can never have you to thank.

I still have trauma.

And as thirsty as I often am for tea, I’ll never know what happened.

I cared.  And you brushed me off.

Defense mechanism?  Maybe.

Maybe your trauma was too hard to deal with a second time, by telling me

But I love you.

I loved you.

It wasn’t the gushy roses and chocolates love,

but I cared for you so deep.  I felt for you.  I cared……

Isn’t that love?