A short note on writing a joyful poem
Only yesterday, I, too, pricked my middle finger
In making way for love—
With water and spittle made a hex,
The Ghanaian flag, once above my bed,
Now bleeding on my desk.
Some have said the colors are changing,
The gold is a curse to our waters
And Atiwa is dying, so China can find its bauxite.
It is as if everyone who ever came here
Was in search of their missing treasures.
Many have crossed deserts, some were buried in dunes,
Others dehumanized, taken in cages.
Until your foolishness, Mr. President, I loved you.
You’ve blamed Russia-Ukraine, the pandemic—
Everybody else but you and your theft,
And your government of your people—daughters, nieces,
Uncles, nephews, cousins, in-laws,
Brothers, sisters, and friends.
Now you call on us to hunger and pray—
To encourage a currency you’ve strangled, to breathe again.
Why not loosen your grip?
I assure you, my delight, today, is in this roasted chicken
And the coffee cake on my desk,
The i love yous of my friends and are you okays of my family,
The purple and yellow sticky notes of
chocolates for the heart, of course, and
this is my all-time-favorite tea!
