You want to know who owned us and where.
When you type, your searches return no results.
Slavery was grown folks' business, then old folks.
We saw no reason to hum old master's name
to our grandchildren, or point out his overgrown gates,
but you want to know who owned us and where we got free.
You keep typing our names into oblongs of digital white.
You plant a Unicode tree and climb up
into grown folks' business.
You know old folks don't want you rummaging here,
so you pile sweet jam in your prettiest dish.
You light candles and pray, tell me who owned you,
and where I might find your graves.
Little child, we're at rest in the acres we purchased.
Those days of slavery were old folks' business.
The grown folks buried us deep, only a few of our names
survive.
We left you that much sudden glints in the grass, the rest
is grown folks' business we say, yet you still want
to know who owned us and where.