hypocritical american

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I wish I could write poetry about the moon
instead my pen only knows the names of dead children
what is a white shroud if not a beacon of another dream that is killed?
what are our homes if not structures stolen by the white hands burying the black and brown hands underneath the rubble?
I wish my hands could write poetry about flowers
instead they lay purple tulips on slabs of stone of names I should not know
who am I if not a hypocritical american who reaches for the black and brown hands underneath the rubble,
as I beg them not to let go.