African-American weeds in the USA.

We were planted here.

Watered, grown and eaten alive. We were no longer wanted here.

Plucked, stomped, torched, cut and sprayed.

All we want to do is live and thrive.

In tainted soil.

This is shown in how the news portrays us. In our education systems.

In the vast discrepancies of race segregated neighborhoods.

I am not a weed and neither are my brothers and sisters.

Abundant we stand till our very last day.

*This poem was inspired by weeding my family garden. As you can see - we laid down plastic and straw to prevent weeds from popping up. Yet, still, this “weed” managed to sprout through. And still they rise.

Weed definition: Any plant you don’t want growing in a specific area.

Noticing the hypocrisy in my actions, I kindly tell all “weeds” I pluck that ”I’m sorry, just not here.” And gently dispose of them in the compost pile to be rejuvenated into beautiful soil for future use. I used to find it weird to talk to plants, but with time I am learning that they can feel it. Sense it. Just as we used our senses as babies when we couldn’t quite speak.

The correlations between humans and nature is infinite. I hope this sheds a hair of light on the endless metaphors nature provides. 🌿

Of All Trades,

Amber 🌞