George Floyd

George Floyd

“I can’t breathe”

 

I watched the white plague of your death

and let us contemplate the worth of this loss

a twenty-dollar bill with another racist president

who owned the grass stained knees of long forgotten slaves.

 

Death is simple when its black and thrown from the thieving lens.

You cannot loot a dying mans eyes he is my brother

and I am a white man sick of primary colours

our skin is not our fault and yet it is.

 

In the circuitry of Earths orbit are not pretty white stars –

they are satellites circling like hierarchical vultures

and they want you now so badly you’re of worth,

A saint no, a man yes, a human without miranda.

 

George Floyd – this poem was written against my knees in bed,

my white skin against the flesh warm breath of my laptop.

Soon it will stop breathing and I shall sleep safe and sound

for I am a white man writing of a black man stolen your whole life

 

and

death.