Recordkeeper

When I visit cypress-kneed plantations on riverside back roads,
I ask the real Planter Class to tell me their names.

I go, and I tell all my dead to let loose,
to transcend illegible death. I know
I come from the real Planter Class:

this kind more likely to rise up
this kind more likely to take their own life
this kind more likely to take ours

I come from somewhere before writing, before lists.
In South Carolina, lists run long,
and I am from a list of unknowns.

Beneath my feet are children,
beloved and blooming white clovers,
a rooted song of fungi protecting my every step.

I know I come from the real planters. Real dark. Grave people.
My great-great granddaddy Friday’s cerulean
hands inside dirt life, not beating the Earth
for indigo, cotton, and rice industries.

I drive to Winyah Bay and watch a ship from 1526 roll in with nightingales
painted on its starboard. My great-great-greats are exalted
inside the international paper mill’s cloud.
They tell me not to be afraid to go far and find love.
So, I go.