My skin did not come with instructions
And us blacks were not taught how to function
In response to all the pay deductions, and false assumptions
And the endless intentional, yet unintentional concussions
From banging my head on the wall
That I did not own because I was too poor to afford one.
I am not stating this for pity, I am just handing you my shoes
So that like in Franny’s Feet you can jump in
And come and visit me
In my sad little
Not sad little world of the black I was given.
And even though I do not have instructions
My mom still took two hundred and seventy days to put me together like a puzzle without the picture provided but when she was done she loved it.
She loved it enough to pass on the absence of instructions from our God to my hands and
I love it!
Because it does not take instructions to know that The piece with the extra piece goes in the piece with the piece missing
And that’s instructions enough to achieve peace within this black temple I own
That I spray painted with success because nobody told me not to.
You see – my mom just did the hard parts.
She just did the hard parts.
She just did everything that I didn’t do, that I couldn’t do, because I wouldn’t be me without those two hundred and seventy days of nothing more than a ticking clock
An expanding womb
And no instructions.