Papers?

I have thousands of them,
Tucked in and out of notebooks,
Detailing the coldness of shackles
Around your ankles,
And handcuffs tied to swollen wrists

Papers, salty with children’s tears
And sweat of fathers and mothers gripping tightly
To tiny hands that would matter
More if they were white

Papers?
I have all of them,
Describing the shame of how easy it is to forget
The face of someone you love
When they are miles away from you,

Papers echoing
How much it hurts to hear
My own mother say “at least we are still healthy….”

Mama,
I am afraid of all illnesses.
I don’t want to just be okay,
I don’t want to pray that nothing will separate us
And I don’t want to keep documenting
In paper after paper the
Heartaches of torn families,
And broken souls

Papers? I have papers,
But not the ones they want to read.