To Daughters For Your Sons Poem by Celeste Butler Mendez

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 with pen.

You are the black women who'll rock the cradle;
back and forth to sons in every coloration.
Light, brown, or black, educate each generation
Side by side with fathers, set a strong foundation.

I am the slave hand that wiped the nose
blown in and out softly as my pink son cried.
Outside in hot sun as my brown son was tied.
By old masters' hand as my black son died.

Celeste Butler-Mendez
Copyright ©2005