250

Born in the womb of contradiction

crying one nation under God

and freedom

while the womb lies bleeding

and hemorrhaging

from the horror of white colonists owning Black people

dragging them across oceans

that buried their screams

their dreams

forcing them to build another dream

that never dreamed of them

while those same white colonists

stole the land from those who nursed it

groomed it

birthed it

called it home first.

Their names run like rivers

Their blood cries from every stone

Their sweat soaks the soil deep

History carved by their bones

Dead, but ghosts don't sleep

We called them from afar-

the poor

the masses,

starving for the promise of freedom

They came believing the light

and we feed them

Liberty wrapped in lies.

Farmers and small businesses

the backbone of our country

broken by big corporations

as they sank their fangs

into the spines that strengthened us

and sucked them dry.

Pregnant again with the promise of freedom

The nation miscarried once more-

It's own body turning against itself

a deceptive womb

pretending it carried peace

but gestated civil war

A stillborn promise-

Reconstruction on paper

offering life that never took a breath

And so, the womb of the nation

hemorrhaged again-

new laws

new chains

Calling themselves "separate but equal".

Though the seed of equity

was never fertilized

A century later came a war

that was not ours-

in a jungle world's away

Spilling the blood

of America's sons

to water someone else's soil

The promise of its first Black president

presented pregnant possibilities

a heartbeat of hope

the country had never seen

But hope is fragile

In an nation fearful

of its own reflection

Now

at 250 years-

This is not a birthday to celebrate

It is a reckoning

A repentance

A repositioning

For a womb cannot birth

what it has not nurtured

And this nation

If it ever hopes

to deliver true democracy

must nourish itself with truth

accountability

and humility

to face the ghosts

that have killed the baby.