By Danielle Fleming

I want you to know

that I was not the one who snatched

you from your earth

replanted

you in asphalt and named you

weed.

And I was not the one

who watered root and leaf in blood

to gift you with rotting fruit.

My grandfathers have long been dead.

I want you to know that I was not the one

who sat you in the back

and slanted the path.

Sat you out back

and fed you scraps

on your own well-worn plate.

I never said you could not eat.

And it was not me

who said you could not be here,

but maybe,

maybe not all of you

and maybe not right here.

I want you to know that I am not a racist.

I was not the one to spit in your face,

my sheets are 400 thread count Egyptian cotton

I wouldn’t ruin to hood.

Remember, I was not the one

who threw brick through window

or lit flame to cross.

I would never shoot

what I did not mean to kill

I would never burn so near my garden.

Times have changed, my grandfathers are long since passed.

I was not the one who hired ships

or closed the shackle,

who had your daughters and worked your sons.

My grandfathers were not who you think.

Please do not forget all I have done for you.

I mean to say, do not forget

I did not ask you here

where I have b(r)ought you to stay.

Danielle Fleming is a social worker, dog mom, and writer living in Louisville, Kentucky with her husband. Her work has been featured in Bellarmine Magazine, Typehouse Literary Magazine, Tiger Moth Review and The Hopper. She has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She can be found on Instagram as @havendf or twitter @danismalley10