STRANGEST FRUIT

Uprooted, replanted, and plucked for profit
It’s proven that we are by far the strangest fruit in this field
Where fear is the farming tool used to damage goods produced by my fruitful population

So we tend to inherit the habit to never look cops in the face
Face forward, head down, disguise yourself as dead
At least they can’t kill you twice, right?

I’ve come to this conclusion from consuming news
Surrounding countless Black lives immortalized with Instagram captions
On what seems to be a biweekly basis
But I— I’ve seen flesh floodеd with shells along the shorelinе of our lineage
Like— like Blackness is a body of water where crooked cops love to camp out
I’ve— I’ve watched war commence on colored kids
Who whither like acres of daffodils
Anchors in bodies of bloody water where the deceased are greeted with deep indifference

I’ve witnessed— I’ve witnessed temperamental white teens being tamed with tasers
But Black babies are often times pacified with gunfire
I’ve even seen people pull their phones from pockets and purses like pistols to shoot indisputable proof
But— but Facebook footage is never a footprint for indictment here
The reality is hands up or not, gunshots turn our torsos into hashtags

Therefore we format tribute tweets in attempt to retract the trauma
But that— that trick is never a treatment for our trail of tears
Especially when our flesh floats on cement without consent
As if we ain’t already considered ⅗ a chip off the old block
Way too Black to block obliques
We preach on platforms digital
Repost our pivotal to ensure that the violent visuals are visible
See how sick this political climate is critical
From transatlantic missions made miserable

Meanwhile, we watch dozens of broken bodies on breaking news swing (swing)
From a nightly noose of headlines
Headlocked by journalists who dared stock our stories with repetitious privilege
Preventing us from ever forgetting just how well our limbs make peace with pavement

Proving that we in fact drip pain by the pint
And paint with pallets of pathological poverty
From memory
From Trauma
From trying to fit into the fit into this sweet home Alabama
Georgia is still on my mind
Mississippi has four eyes and is still somehow blind
To of all strange fruit falling from Louisiana skies
And— and— and I’m supposed to act as if everything is just, just peachy keen

After apple seeds of deep-seated racism have mutilated my family tree for centuries
On end