Were there any Mother’s Day flowers
For Birdie Africa’s mom the day the
Philadelphia police cleared one square
City block in preparations for their massacre?
Did the mothers trapped in that burning row house
Get bouquets of lilies and roses and carnations
And hugs and smiles and warm salutations?
Because the outside world sure wasn’t
Giving them any. Just bombs and fire, a
Mini-Dresden for mini-Hitlers, a show of civic power,
For they can’t afford Family Africa’s kind of truth
Wafting down Osage and into the hearts and minds
They would rather slay than have educated.
Perhaps Birdie picked a fledgling bloom
From between the cracks of urban doom
And gave it to his mother who straddled
The San Andreas fault of black injustice
With her family enduring by her side
In that inhumane squalor their
Desperate voices cried out from, with
Only the hand of brutality answering their call.