The Greatest Country in the World

Every 4th of July, 

I nibble on a sugar cookie.

You know the ones Walmart sells, 

the fluffy, crumbly ones with

the thick frosting and rainbow sprinkles? 

My family teases me because 

my lips are dyed blue. 

 

I’ve been colonized, conditioned, 

clapping when the fireworks explode, 

wearing an American flag tank top, an 

American flag hair bow, 

American flag converse, 

red face paint, 

blue overalls, 

celebrating with white friends and white family 

with hot dogs and burgers on white buns. 

 

Somewhere a black man soaks in a pool of his own blood—red

a fitting color for the holiday. 

The cop that murdered him—white 

just like our Stars and Stripes. 

You know 

the ones you criticized a black man for kneeling in front of. 

I wonder 

if fireworks and gunshots sounded the same to him. 

The black man’s lips were icy blue; 

I wonder 

if he too loved those sugar cookies.