From the Desk of a So-Called "Colonizer"

Here they come again,

With torches & pitchforks,

Screaming,

Demanding,

Accusing,

But there is no blood,

On my hands.

I did not take

Their land,

Nor sell a man.

My only sin is in

Wanting to be

A friend,

To aim to love all

Equally.

Is that “white fragility”?

I was called

A colonizer,

Because “caucasian

Hair doesn’t curl”

And I protested

With pictures of ringlets

That unfurl

From my ivory, red-head daughter’s

Hair.

Is it the color that puts them there?

My ancestors know

Something of persecution too.

The vikings,

The scots,

The celts

Cultures destroyed for power

And wealth,

In the name of saving

The heathens

From themself.

I make no demands,

It does not make me

Better than,

But I have learned,

Through surviving my own

Modern

Abuse

It is only when hate and hurt

Are what we choose to lose

We begin to see a future

Where love is the answer

And reach for it

With each hand.

I did not take their land.