By Jim Kelly
We were born beneath a promise—
a flag stitched in liberty’s name,
yet our lullabies were sung
beneath sirens, not stars.
We learned early to whisper,
to shrink in the hallway of fear,
where eyes judged before questions,
and innocence wore armor too soon.
Our crayons drew skies without sun,
dreams outlined in chalk outlines,
and playground laughter muffled
by the echo of names unspoken.
We watched mothers hold photos,
not children—
watched fathers disappear
into headlines and handcuffs.
We are the prayers our grandmothers spoke
when hope felt like rebellion.
We are the psalms of resistance—
still rising, still breathing,
still here.
Do you see us?
Not as shadows of pain,
but as heirs of the light—
black children, still dreaming,
still believing the world can love us whole.
