how did Grandpa Brown get his land?

one hundred fertile acres incited

centuries of silly questions

like “were mules included?”

truth faded into mystery,

answers, hearsay

from dead voices.

Great Grand Lee of native blood whispered,

“do what white folks say,

and they won’t kill you.”

his life, our land depended on smiles and waves.

we were not warriors.

land rich. impoverished.

what remains?

battered boards,

remnants of our homemade 5-room shanty.

grouted well

that nourished 16 children, livestock, cotton.

pine trees

rooted in proud carolina soil.

dusty roads

with boot prints bound for northern highways.

after Grandpa died, i never returned to the farm.

in my mailbox, form letters from profiteers

begging for land or timber.

is there guilt in selling one’s homeland?

truth discovered it is not my land. it is God’s land.

no guilt or commandment in a smile. only life.