Look at me and tell me

I didn’t fight for my rights.

Because twenty-four hours seems more like twelve rounds

And some days the bell doesn’t sound.

Their blood runs through my veins

So do all the medical complications,

Their dreams and imaginations,

Half-baked, floating in the mirage of the sun,

Hovering over cotton clouds sweeter than their dreams are.

Legions of slave ships,

Years of backs bent,

Worn hands and weary hearts.

Families taken and torn apart.

You can still see the effects.

Claiming a religion that wasn’t even ours.

Staying up for hours.

Praying for a Savior who wasn’t even ours.

Their blood runs through my veins.

But from the admissions I make,

You’d never know it.

Telling people I’m Irish

‘Cause look at me. I’m definitely Irish.

Their blood runs through my veins,

And I can’t claim a tribe.

Ancestry.com, you know I’ve tried.

Don’t look down on me because I’m not from your tribe.

Come to America. We’re all the same tribe.

Look at me and tell me

My rights don’t matter.      

Look at me and tell me

I don’t deserve them.

Just because it wasn’t my blood on the leaves,

My body swinging from the trees,

Doesn’t mean you can’t still see the lashes.

Don’t try lifting up my shirt because they’re not on my back.

Crack open my skull. Watch my demons attack.

I’m still a strange fruit.

Just a different flavor.