Celeste Butler Mendez
To Daughters For Your Sons
I am the slave hand that rocked the cradle
back and forth gently as my pink son slept.
While on a dirt floor, my brown son crept.
As I catered to masters' mood, my black son wept.
The year 1712, by a lake, grandma heard it.
Willie Lynch, his word; she cried as he spoke it.
This is her story, she told as a mother;
each one her son, each one their brother.
Grandma looked kind of sad, recalling tales by dark waters.
She spoke of her sons as she spoke to her daughters;
rear them up to be educated, leaders of men.
Teach them to fight; not with sword but ...