dream

Black girls can’t play with dolls
Without their arms being violently pulled by the state
Without guns being pointed at their face 
And brown babies can’t find safe shelter
Without freezing and being refused milk—poor things.

Things. 
Not worthy of water or food or peace or innocence.
Indigenous lands poisoned.
White indifference colonizing schools. Jobs. Churches.

When bootstraps are stuck in the cement of racism and capitalism, 
When personal responsibility comes with chains of debt and red lines and pale bigotry,
The Dream is a myth—believed by the unlearned and privileged.

And it doesn’t make sense 
To believe in a God that scoffs
And draws lines and borders 
And blames souls for their misfortune.

No.

That is not God.
I don’t know where they are.
But that is not them. 

Maybe we should ask the black girls. 
And brown babies.
And indigenous people.

But not the church.