Foreday in the Morning
My mother grew morning glories that spilled onto the walkway toward her porch, Because she was a woman with land who showed as much by giving it color. She told me I could have whatever I worked for. That means she was an American. But she'd say it was because she believed, In God. I am ashamed of America, And confounded by God. I thank God for my citizenship in spite, Of the timer set on my life to write, These words I love my mother. I love black women, Who plant flowers as sheepish as their sons. By the time the blooms, Unfurl themselves for a few hours of light, the women who tend them, Are already at work. Blue. I'll never know who started the lie that we are lazy,, But I'd love to wake that bastard up, At foreday in the morning, toss him in a truck, and drive him under God, Past every bus stop in America to see all those black folk, Waiting to go work for whatever they want. A house? A boy, To keep the lawn cut? Some color in the yard? My God, we leave things green. , This story is part of TIME's August 6 special issue on the American South. Discover more from the issue here.