On Voting for Barak Obama with a Nat Turner T Shirt On
       

The ballot has never been a measure of forgiveness.
In prison, people don't even talk about voting,
about elections, not really, not the dudes
you remember, cause wasn't nobody Black
running no way. But your freedom hit just
in time to see this brother high-stepping with
the burden, with the albatross, willing
to confess that he knew people like you.
& you are free, you are what they call out
& off papers & living in a state where you
can cast a ballot. In prison, you listened
to ballot or the bullet & imagined that
neither was for you, having failed with
the pistol & expecting the ballot to be
denied. But nah, you found free & in line
notice that this is not like the first time
you & the woman you'd married got naked
& sweated & moaned & funked up a room
not belonging to either of you. That lady
is with you now & a kid is in your arms,
& you are wearing a Nat Turner T-shirt
as if to make a statement at the family
reunion. Everyone around you is Black,
which is a thing you notice. & you know
your first ballot will be cast for a man
who has the swag that seems inherited.
It's early but there is no crust in your eyes,
you wanted this moment like freedom.
You cast a ballot for a Black man in
America while holding a Black baby.
Name a dream more American than
that, especially with your three felonies
serving as beacons to alert anybody
of your reckless ambition. That woman
beside you is the kind of thing fools
don't even dream about in prison,
she lets you hold your boy while voting,
as if the voting makes you & him
more free. Sometimes, it's just luck.
Just having moved to the right state
after the cell doors stopped
clanking behind you. The son
in the arms of the man was mine,
& the arms of the man belonged
to me, & I wore a Nat Turner
T-shirt like a fucking flag, brown
against my brown skin.

Tweet
Copyright © 2020 Reginald Dwayne Betts All rights reserved
from Iron Horse Literary Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission