White Man Pink Dress Black Heart

Funtime eighties.
Guides were slim.
Older candidates handsy
when there’s booze.

Disapproval
and disgust
in eyes of the 99.9.
Family and friends
strangers
on the streets.
Everywhere
the ubiquitous look.

Glad I rebelled.
Eighteen in 2020?
Google man sex.
Tweet the struggle.
Not an autonomous path.

Today and two years in?
Family plans on the table.
Not my path.
Mine part of the spark
of the dream
that is now
for so many.

At eighteen I did call him husband.
It ruffled feathers.
That liberated
and inclusive
popped brain cells.
Even gay cells
acquiesced to deviant depravity.
Theirs no happiness.
A horrible
violent
lonely path.
Love
family
pleasantries
for the other.

Back 40
through hurt
oppression
dismissals
reprisals
mistreatment.
Pale to the other
outside the white bubble.

In eighties we’re stopped late –
Where going?
Where been?
What wearing?
Fashion check?
Cute and petite
fashion checks his everyday.
He is black.

Years later
no change
to grotesque
racist
Law.
In-humane.
Barbaric.
Aggressive.
Someone else’s story?

In 58 four of note.
Two marijuana.
Some pleasant banter
contraband gone
plus warning.
Two vehicular.
Painful lecture bully mansplaining addicts
and tickets.

No answers.
Many theories.
Respect.
Love.
Empathy.
Concern.
Engagement.
Learn.
Always learn.
And thank you.
Every day
thank you.

a poem by Kevin Bergsma

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