I am the slave hand that rocked the cradle <br />back and forth gently as my pink son slept. <br />While on a dirt floor, my brown son crept. <br />As I catered to masters' mood, my black son wept. <br /> <br />The year 1712, by a lake, grandma heard it. <br />Willie Lynch, his word; she cried as he spoke it. <br />This is her story, she told as a mother; <br />each one her son, each one their brother. <br /> <br />Grandma looked kind of sad, recalling tales by dark waters. <br />She spoke of her sons as she spoke to her daughters; <br />rear them up to be educated, leaders of men. <br />Teach them to fight; not with sword but with pen. <br /> <br />You are the black women who'll rock the cradle; <br />back and forth to sons in every coloration. <br />Light, brown, or black, educate each generation <br />Side by side with fathers, set a strong foundation. <br /> <br />I am the slave hand that wiped the nose <br />blown in and out softly as my pink son cried. <br />Outside in hot sun as my brown son was tied. <br />By old masters' hand as my black son died. <br /> <br />Celeste Butler-Mendez <br />Copyright ©2005<br /><br />Celeste Butler Mendez<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-daughters-for-your-sons/
