My little black boy.
You will die.
You will become a martyr.
You will be the face that everyone sees in a protest.
You will be the boy behind the gun.
You will be the thug they see walking down the streets.
You will be a symbol to others.
But you’re my little black boy.
My son behind that gun.
My son is a symbol.
My son seen as a thug.
My son dead.
My little black boy dead.
Not black blood. Not white blood.
My little red boy.
A symbol that too many black boys turn red.
By Satura Dudley