by Sigrid E. Mortensen

© 2023

Why should I feel guilty

For the color of my skin?

I was not there

When the Black Man was stolen from his home.

It was not I who lashed his wrists to oars, or

Whipped his back until bloody

As he rowed himself to terrifying servitude.

It was not I who sold him on the block like cattle,

Tore him from mother

From wife

From father

From child.

It was not I who placed him behind the plow

And beat him into submission

Until he toiled for me.

It was not I who pursued him if he ran

Then thrust him back into chains.

I should not feel shame for the color of my skin.

And neither should he.

That I rarely do

And he often does

Is a measure of imbalance.

That I am comfortable in my legacy of prosperity

And he wrestles to survive

Is a measure of imbalance.

Until balance is restored,

Until black mothers perish in childbirth

No more often than their white counterparts,

Until opportunities are as rich for one

As they are for another,

I will not feel shame,

But take action

With my voice

With my vote

With my compassion

With my seeing.

I will see the truth.

I will see the struggle.

I will see the struggles

Of those whose skin

Is a different color

From mine.