for Native Child

Lauren Keyana Palmer –
championship speller,
teenage pimp,
and all-around baddie –
came clean like y’all asked:
The average dude she gave a shot and a baby
had the audacity, tenacity, and gymnastics
to put his hands on her.
And some of y’all were so busy 
caping for the clown,
you only wanted talk about the Usher serenade
like it was Hillary’s emails.

While the comments section burst into flames,
another sister was buying concealer
and weighing her options,
was lying to her family and friends,
telling us all he’s a “good man,”
that he just “gets a little mad sometimes,”
and it’ll be fine once he’s “back on his feet.”
She tried to stand up to him,
told him what Mama Nikki said
about systems and fists
and so he didn’t hit her that time.
Instead, he used a weapon to take her life.

And these same black men – 
the ones who will “grand rising”
and “queen” you with every other breath
are back in the comments section
caping for the murderer,
instead of his dead wife,
instead of her orphaned daughters,
instead of the entire community
that should have, would have, could have…
if only we’d known.

How a black man can fix his lips
to evoke the name of Carolyn Bryant 
in defense of his stark refusal 
to believe a woman’s accusation 
that a man abused her 
confounds me.
Like, did you stretch first?
You gon’ hurt yourself
with those mental acrobatics.
Cuz you leaping and spinning 
and bending over backwards 
and all it’s giving is:
tell me you think it’s OK to abuse women 
without telling me you’re a piece of shit.

I hear your justifications.
And I raise you a restraining order.
I hear you making excuses.
And I raise you, so does your daughter.
I hear your “but what did she do.”
And I raise you a “I don’t give a fuck.”
Your defense of the indefensible
causes a riot in my throat,
a prayer that sounds like:
“Namu-myoho-renge-kyo.”

All these years later –
albums, awards, and groundbreaking achievements –
and the most famous thing about Tina Turner
is still how Ike used to treat her.

May I never be reduced 
to a footnote in the biography 
of the fists that have pounded my flesh.
May my famous last words
belong to me and me alone.

And may KeKe raise her son 
to be a better man than his father… and you.

Denise R. Ervin is a creative writer hewn from the streets, classrooms, and boardrooms of Detroit, all of which taught her to contribute to the narrative of those who live, love, and look like her. She has spent two decades as a teaching artist, performing poetry around the country, and leading workshops for the likes of Midnight & Indigo and the University of Michigan. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in AADUNA, Harbinger Asylum, Third Wednesday Magazine, and others.  Most recently, she was selected as a Graduate Fellow by The Watering Hole and a semifinalist for America’s Next Great Author.