And we led them there.
You can tell yourself otherwise,
but I know when my son talks
of drilling for an active shooter,
numb as waiting for a napkin passed,
that I have failed.

I know the annals of my promises to him.
I whispered them to him in the womb-
“I am very confused.”
“You might not want to be with me.”
“I will love you all I can.”
“I already love you all I can.”
“Sometimes I feel very
sorry for myself.”

I hope you can see this
for all that it really is-
the freakish spasms
of the white man finally dying.
If any part of you is
young, woman, or dark,
please, do not hesitate!

Please, save my son
from all the fears that the
powerful protect with guns.
I will be there with you,
but I have already failed
so I won’t be useful for much
asides as a shield
of rather flaccid flesh

proud of nothing much
asides from his life,
and my falling before
your march forward
into the dance of
more colorful light.