Plantations to Palaces

I heard the ancestors finally drop their bags of sugarcane and cotton.
I see them walking in from a long day in the fields, fingernails dirty, hair matted and uncombed.
They whisper to one another in broken English but elegant tongue; their accents sings a song of freedom.
I see the ancestors jump and dance their uncovered scared backs sways with the rhythm of a new day.
Scars no long covered in shame but worn proudly as marks of endurance. Their endurance!
We were cast down, cracked but never broken.
I see the ancestors washing in river that flowed once with blood now with a new current that brings clean water.
The water they also drink thirstily for it taste of hope.
I see the old babies sucking on dry tits that leak with a nectar as sweet as honey. For love flows from those dust covered nipples.
I see the outhouse now vacant.
I see the backdoors only use for exits. I see the ancestors step their muddy feet in the front door.
OH; the drams beat with a joy that was only was heard in the old country, the mother country the other country that was never forgotten..
I see the plantations no longer growing cotton or sagurcane but I see seeds of hope. I see the red soil growing love. I see the ancestors picking a new future a new crop. I heard the songs of freedom carried on the winds of change over the wide open sea back to the free brothers and sisters on the other side. Who never new bondage.
They sing;
“Mama, Papa we made it safe. Its hearth not as warm as yours but we made it safe. Mama, Papa the sun did set and we lost so many children along the way but we made it safe. Mama Papa your children no long walk in chains, in shame but now we wear gold. Mama Papa we went from Plantations to Palaces, from poorpers to presidents and now we can say we have found home. Obama.