The Promise
It’s Personal—
Two hundred and fifty years—
dehumanized, shackled hell.
40 acres, a mule—
The Baited Deception—
Freedom’s lie,
unraveled fast—
no ground to stand,
no stake, no soil.
Just free—to serve,
the bitter coil.
The Trick—
Sharecropping,
slavery with a smirk.
Chains faded,
but still you took, still you choked.
The Loaded Gun—
“Be thankful,” they spat—
block tenements,
stamp rations—
branded worth.
Bars replaced chains.
Drugs bused in—
rotted minds,
bodies, souls.
Children bused out,
scraps of opportunity—
but real access? Your joke.
The Eradication—
Babies shot down,
families split—
debt replaced the whip.
Toxins poured, veins tested,
dialects drowned,
hope gutted,
names scratched out,
truth burned from pages.
The loud ones?
Examples—crushed flat.
Entry—unapologetically denied.
The Arrears—
Count it:
days, years, centuries—
labor stolen, unpaid.
It sears our bones,
boils our veins,
screams through locked jaws—
no land, no mule,
only us—left to wear the pain.
The Molotov Cocktail—
You dodge it.
Scrub it from your mind—
erase the stain.
“Much too long ago.”
“Never happened.”
Well—not.
Your greed built this roof,
and now it tilts.
Here we stand—
Brown is rising,
the tide is turning,
the debt’s still due.
Copyright © Gabrielle Jordan | Year Posted 2025
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