Press Me Down

Press me down with your might,
and let the badge be your excuse, Mr White.

Press me down some more,
for nothing more may matter.
I am the sun that history designed
and called inferior but I shine on, still.

Let this body on the tar
and the teary eyes from afar
make you the god that you seek,
whether of blood or a complex so superior.
Like my ancestors on the cotton farm, this ground is familiar.

Press me down with your pale knee and a dark heart.
Sit on the privilege that our complexions differ, Mr White,
for tomorrow, when the sun rises,
I shall rise, unbound,
unloyal to no Star Spangled Banner.

Press me down all you want,
from history to the distant future,
press me down, Mr. Tom,
but like vapour, I’ll rise, to the heavens unbound,
free from sad knees and the strangling of our sagging will to stay unbowed.