Heritage
by Ken Denk 

In a city that was never white 
whether measured by population 
or the integration of blood 
and sweat of slaves laid into the 
wood and stone of finely wrought 
Antebellum opulence, 
when a proudly flown banner is a 
constant, subdermal sneer, muttering, 
"Know Your Place, Boy", 
then your heritage is hate.

When the sacred silk on your flagpole 
is no different, but for paint and patterns, 
than the soot stained sheets worn 
by terrorists and cowards in the night, 
too brave to do the hard work 
of thinking and growing, 
when that divergent pigment 
in the skin is sin in your lily-white, 
Southern Plight sight, 
then your heritage is hate.

When black mothers weep and wail, 
children, husbands, families ripped away 
centuries ago or today, 
but you care more for who marries whom 
than innocent people filling tombs, 
since they were probably thugs, 
involved in drugs, 
or sat their waiting to die, 
your argument a twangy, ignorant lie 
and your heritage is hate.

Miss me with that 
weaksauce whitesplaining, 
don't piss on my leg 
and tell me it's raining, 
your vaunted heritage 
never stood for me 
and if you were smart, 
you wouldn't stand for it, 
step clear of the shadow of the past 
reaching long fingers 
from beyond the grave, 
last shovelful tossed and tamped 
at a table in Appomatox, 
don't dig to unearth old treason, 
there a reason it's dead, 
let it rest.

Ken Denk from Upstate New York is a father, nurse, and poet who now makes his home in Columbia, SC. 

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