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
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