Autopsy of a Page Break

Autopsy of a Page Break
An open letter to the boy who asked why my board on police brutality was so negative.
Because death isn’t on the list of the perks of being black.
Because I’m tired of my brothers being target practice.
Because all the brown poets I know write about sadness after the summertime shootout, and poverty and empty bellies, while the other poets get to write about summer.
Because the Hunger Games is just a movie to you, a record breaking box office picture, you can pick and choose when you want to see it.
Because the Hunger Games is really just Jackson Projects every other day.
Because the Hunger Games is Puerto Rico.
Because the Hunger Games is Flint, Michigan.
Because the Hunger Games is everyday in a brown body.
A brown body shot by Katniss.
I mean, shot by captains.
Hoods with badges and
I’m scared.
I’m scared to die.
Scared to live.
Scared to be too this or too that.
My biggest fear is dying, and when my ancestors reach out to hold my hands they look at mine, unscathed, and say “are you not one of us? Have you not continued our fight?”
I’m scared to bear a son,
and name him only to have him be called a hashtag.
I’m tired of every hashtag.
Every sidewalk outlined in chalk.
All the boys I’ve ever loved, I’ve loved in chalk,
in caskets,
on paper.