When I was 27
I wrote poems,
bitched about
my night shift job
at the car factory.
My baby learned
to walk, 4 steps
from me to her aunt
and we cheered
so loud, the baby
started crying.
When I was 27
I went into
my father’s hospice
room and held
his hand, planned
his funeral
with my mother.
She did not
plan mine.
When I was 27,
cops did not
shoot me 8 times
in my bed.
I did not become
the current face
to humanize
racism and common
violations of justice.
When I was 27
I was allowed
to live.