Uncle Tom
He’s got a job, he works real heard,
Got an apartment, and a used car,
He puts in the hours, bears the scars
That is the path he’s on.
Gets a promotion, then moves away
To a nice suburb, he’s bound to stay,
With room for some kids to run and plan,
Even a space for his old mom.
Gets drinks with work friends, meets a girl
She smiles at him, and his whole world,
Comes to him as they wedding-dance twirl,
Another there is none.
He settles on in, is living his life
He’s found his was free of old strife,
A kid on the way; a fine, lovely wife,
He handles it with aplomb.
But those he once knew, sorely lack
the success he has, the winning track,
They say he’s forgotten being black,
They think that he did wrong.
The call him race-traitor, a sell-out.
Most vicious slurs, they do spout
their own ‘wokeness’ they loudly tout,
They call him ‘Uncle Tom.’
But he listens not, never again
will he let himself be defined by them,
His choices he’ll make until the end,
That is the path he’s on,
It’s a path both sweet and long.
Copyright © David Welch | Year Posted 2017
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