If I Were A Black Man, I’d Be Dead.

Job.

If I were a Black Man, I’d be dead.

My anger would have turned to hot, molten lead,

Unable to control my temper,

Some frightened, ugly White man

Would have put a bullet through my head.

I see me, but you see something wild —

You see an animal; to you, all threat & fear;

No father, no mother, no family, no child;

Not human, you don’t want me anywhere near.

So you curse me, or shoot me,

Or kneel on my neck

Until I’m no longer here,

Which, to you, I never was.

If I were a Black Man, I’d have long lost my faith,

In justice or fairness — in all except hate.

I’d have long cursed Jesus,

Tongue-lashed him like Job,

Furious at my own self,

For seeking protection from His Robe.

My anger my refuge,

My fuse growing short,

I’d never again seek solace,

In church or in court.

If I were a Black Man,