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.