Access Card

We toss around “privilege” like a form of currency.
A mark of social status.
A brand on the forehead skin – written across breasts – etched into autopsied brains.
Those who fall in between.
We all have an access card, hung around our necks,
Sometimes like pearl necklaces, like chokers,
Sometimes like nooses.
A “normal” person. Normal.
Born as he was, unchanged, unwilling to change –
Swiping right into the White House,
Sauntering into the Oval Office like he owns America and
He does.
I cannot open the door to my own autonomy; no, only a man has that card.
My best friend’s pronouns and name and identity are redacted by black sharpie –
/////// is not allowed to know exactly who ////// is.
It’s funny how our access cards, when swiped on the entrances and exits and intricacies of our own lives
Tell us our passwords are wrong.
Maybe one day we could all potentially step into the Oval Office.
One black man in forty-four presidents.
One in forty-fucking-four.
We are banging on the door. But they are normal. And they scoff.
Because they know we cannot be granted access unless we break through the windows and
Trust me
Someday we will.