We may never know their names

The ancestors,

Those taken from families of their own

To land unknown

Stolen, bought, and sold

But not losing their souls.

We may never know them,

But we know their fruit.

It looks like spinning oppression into ownership

Like cotton into cash crop for more seed,

Using it to feed the children that would create a mighty clan

On the land you tilled.

It looks like Joe finding his Savannah in an old plantation field

And building a family that would yield ten-fold.

It looks like planting a garden in Tennessee

Teaching, growing, and nurturing,

Leaving a legacy that would spread from south to north

And sea to sea.

It’s a “W” and a “W” and an “O” and a “D.”

We know their fruit.

It smells like outside,

Summer days in the sun

Hiding from chores in exchange for fun,

Playing with siblings or cousins in the grass

Making memories that would last

lifetimes.

We know their fruit.

It tastes like greens and cornbread

Like a Sunday dinner spread

Like watermelon and barbecue

Like the last two slices

Of red velvet cake.

Like summer breaks in the country

Like cha-cha pickles

And cha-cha sliding-

Crossing, colliding

Creating culture.

We know their fruit.

It sounds like the joy at graduations

Celebrations and dedications.

It sounds like comfort in times of grief

Sounds like a firm belief in brighter days

Sound like waves of stories

Of days of glory.

Sounds like Blues too.

Sound like tall tales and big truths.

Sound like young adults and “seasoned” youth,

A gathering of generations.

And we know their fruit.

Sounds like preacher collars and mass choirs

Marching down the aisle to a sway and a psalm,

The healing balm of a song

That got us over, or under or through,

Helping in pursuit of grace.

Sounds like creaking pews keeping pace with the beat.

stomping feet,

Raised voices.

A family joined in a resounding chorus

Singing “We’ve come this far by faith…”