Hear me good, Son.
Even if I’d named you
God Bless America
Even if we candy-paint
the constitution
on your Cutlass—
Even if you were
Charlie Pride
racing the General Lee
at Talladega
with Billy Graham 
as your crew chief
You better not win.
They. Will. Kill. You.

You think I’m lying?
You think ’cause
they can quote Madea movies
and voted for the Obamas
and ’cause Michael Jordan
owns a team that we’ve
made it somewhere?
Let any one of ’em say Black
and Matter and not be
talking about outer space
and watch the Bull Connor come
out all them white news boys.

I’m serious, Son.
That’s why I keep this .45
on me wherever I go—
work, funerals, fishing—
’Cause I believe ’em when they
say “We want our country back.”
They got to make it over
according to their image.
I know white peoples, Son.
And they got no problems
killing who and what
they worship.
No not one.
Not. A. Damn. One.