I never dreamed one day

I’d be parsing a picture book

explaining to five year olds that yes,

a black man was shot

by someone who hated him

because of the color of his skin,

and before he died he had a Dream

for children just like them.

After the story (required),

they—with their earnest,

“Was he real, teacher?”

“Yes, he was,” and me with my

tears welling up, held at bay

(I’m the grown up after all)

stunned at their beautiful innocence,

so sure of what they believe,

too young to know any other truth,

with their small-ish hands placed

in front of them, like so many

skin-made flowers, a spontaneous

array of color spread across the carpet.

And their words, puzzling, bewildered

Again and again, But I’m just like her,

She’s just like him.

They shouldn’t have done that.

Why did they shoot him?

We’re all just the same, teacher.”

And me shuttered speechless,

nodding, mumbling, tears on my cheeks,

Bungling words that should never be said

To five year olds, “They killed him because

They didn’t know what you know—

We’re all just the same, honey,

Yes we are. We’re all just the same.”

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Kindergarten, January