You want my death to be as American as a number one from McDonald’s,
and as civil as Chris Rock watching white-men detonate the N-Bomb in front of him.
You want my flowers dipped in bleach before they lay them on my grave,
along with the last name my father gave me when he was bored one day in Virginia.
You want my ashes spread up and down the aisle of the classrooms I’ve taught in,
or inhaled by my coworkers who replaced my name with “him?” when they first saw me.
Remember when I learned the phrases
Catching a fair one, and running the fade,
And used them to let your friends know
That my hands do more than type sermons
To my imaginary church of black folk?
I’ll double back and park my fist through colors,
Shapes that offend the laws of my nature.
I listen to DMX once a week to stay in shape
And keep a “I Wish a Nigga Would” in the
Passenger seat, so it can let me know where
The nearest low road is located.
Please don’t wear all white at my funeral.
I don’t want to stain my grandmother’s
white scarf I bought her for her birthday
(When I was young enough to accuse Hell
Of being a figment of my grandpa’s imagination,
And peace being solved through Bloody Knuckles)
With the pain still clinging to the dirt under my fingernails.