Why I don’t write about George Floyd

Because there is too much to say
Because I have nothing to say
Because I don’t know what to say
Because everything has been said
Because it hurts too much to say
What can I say what can I say
Something is stuck in my throat
Something is stuck like an apple
Something is stuck like a knife
Something is stuffed like a foot
Something is stuffed like a body

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“There was so much that my parents and grandparents, escaping from the violence of the South and their own personal histories of trauma, didn’t (and wouldn’t!) talk about. They didn’t want their children to grow up with the same fears. We had to move on. The killing of George Floyd brought up a grief that feels as though it has been put away for centuries. The poem is about the long, hard process of reclamation.”
—Toi Derricotte

Black Lives Matter Anthology

“he put gently into the earth
some plants which, most likely,
some of them, in all likelihood,
continue to grow”

—“A Small Needful Fact” by Ross Gay