You Ask Me What My Problem Is?

Why can’t you see me?
I stand before you invisible.
You talk at me, speak my name, touch my face, and feel my tears as they fall…
Yet you don’t see me.
I am beautiful too.
My skin is soft to the touch.
My voice is melodic when I choose to use it.
I can cook like nobody’s business.
And when I grind, man, you don’t know love like the lovin I can put on you….
And yet, you don’t see me.
I am the one who gave birth to you.
I raised you up, suckled you at my breast, taught you to be the man you are.
I am the one who sat up all night with you when the world marked you with three strikes and told you you weren’t good enough.
I held your head when you were sick.
I fought beside you when battled all, even the people you called friend.
And when you got big enough, strong enough to stand on your own, you turned your back on me and turned to the very person, the very thing that scorned you and made you cry tears of blood for things you could not even control.
You forgot about me and what I did, what I represented to you.
You pretended as if I never existed, as if I were something in your past that was distasteful and disgusting, a slight on your prosperous family tree.
You saw me on the street and walked by as if I were nothing, holding onto that white hand who knows nothing of what it means to carry your black skin.
And then you call me bitter, angry, vindictive.
All I want, all I need is that you see me.