If America Doesn’t Want You Dead

I’m a lot of things: the baddest bitch, the realest nigga,
    a child of god, a lordless land, black,
my grandma’s prayer-gifted lungs, barely more than smoke, a little
    planet of chaotic orbit, a
versatile bottom, a believer in the gospel of house shoes and
    screen doors, the last man
spinning on the dance floor, an awful child, the king of blunts and
    homo-thugs, rightful heir
of my mother’s last dream; I’m the hope of the people, I’m what’s
    wrong with black folks,
I’m a lot of things but they all alive. I’m alive & somebody mad
    about it. Being black and not
dead is a radical act. If me saying that upsets you or annoys you,
    you may kindly excuse
yourself from this poem. I got a lot to say that I shouldn’t have to,
    like I matter. I dream in
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