Researching family history, a dangerous thing,
uncovered discoveries, like a bee sting.
Skeletons dance around, inside our mind,
cobwebs of controversy, solidly entwined.
In tobacco fields, worked by Black slaves,
overseen by ancestors, in guarded enclaves.
I wasn’t there, to ask for an account,
for enslaving humans, charges mount.
For the milieu in the South, was their own,
a practice I condemn, and clearly disown.
Their blood may run inside, my DNA,
but attitude is environmental, I dare say.
What is the answer to learning this thing,
is it worth all the pain and suffering?
Ancestors are kin, from long in the past,
learn from misdeeds, for healing to last.