Tears For Papa

I relive the nightmare of seeing my papa hanged At six, I didn’t know I could cry so hard and so much They dragged him to a tree while the crickets sang It deprived me of any chance to feel his final touch Growing up when the Jim Crow South was at its worst I don’t care how hot it got, working in the scorching heat They would offer me no water, let a black girl die of thirst In my dreams, I saw papa swing from a Spanish Moss tree It seemed I picked rough cotton or tobacco my entire life I never went inside a schoolroom, much less learned to read Mama gave me away at thirteen to be an older man’s wife Birthing sixteen children. It’s for sure I knew how to breed I lived too long and have seen too much. No tears left to cry If you asked about my papa, I couldn’t bring myself to speak On the news, I saw my great-grandson left on the streets to die Now, those tears I saved for papa pitch slowly down my cheeks