where the writers are
a poem about racism

Here, at long last, is a new poem.                                                                                                              

 

whenever i say i'm from alabama
people seem to want to ask
what it was like to hold that fire hose
i never have to answer
but if i did i'd tell them
i was born the day that happened

they seem to want to ask
what it was like to bomb that church
and kill those little girls
i was born that day as well

i was born the day they marched across
the edmund pettus bridge
the day wallace made his stand
the day martin had his dream
the day he saw the mountaintop
and the day after that

i was born innocent
free of all the blood
that was shed that day
but i was born into blood
i still am washing from my hands

© Robert Gray.  All rights reserved.