When the white hawks come

Tell them they have to come back

After I get my check

That’s what uncle homer lee used to say sittin up on the stoop in Brooklyn

Way up south of fort valley

Far down the road from the bones of his grandpappy and all his ol black folks

Now he’s sittin up

Playin cards

Shootin dice

Just livin like a regular New York nigga

Tryin his hand at them ol death numbers

679 679 679 679

Well coulda been bout 6 or 7 or 9 or tellum that finally came lookin for ol uncle homer

lee

Outta time

It was sister and Fannie Mae Riley for sure

That he saw done flew down

Arms big and extended

Feet crouched and forward

Draped in white light - ready to pluck his last breath clear outta time

Maybe they sent that last check to lil baby. Prolly not. All I know is,

Wasn’t nothin to tell them white hawks when they came.

Outta time

———

I’ll never forget the day my uncle homer lee died. Somebody somewhere still owes me a

new dress. 10 dollars. His last check maybe even. Something. Grandma was watching

us, as always. She got a call from the hospital. Things had taken a turn for the worst

they said. She gathered her pocketbook and took off to see him. Me, Julius and Tyler

had to stay back alone. Now Julius didn’t bother nobody that day but you couldn’t take

your eyes off that lil nigga for too long or he’ll have beads or a dime up his nose. True

story. No that day he was chill. It was Tyler on bullshit that afternoon. Gon call himself

calling the police just to see what would happen. I well the police called back. And I

answered. I forget exactly what I told them. Heart racing. Terrified really. I knew we

were legally too young to be left alone . I was 10 and the boys were 7. I knew we were

black children and that it really didn’t matter that grandmas brother was dying today/ we

were in trouble. I told some lie. Something like “our baby sitter is downstairs - I’ll go get

her”. After a while, I gently hung up the phone. I took off to grandmas receiver - you

know where she had basic numbers listed - her pager and her work numbers. I called

the work number hoping to get a familiar voice. I called looking for Ms Zula. Ms Zula is a

family friend. She is a contemporary of my grandma. We went to church together and

grandma worked for her looking after teenage girls in group homes that Ms Zula ran

around the bay. I swiftly told her what happened and she sped over to the house. I

waited for her so anxiously. She arrived no more than five minutes before the police

arrived. She made it there just in time to corroborate my story and keep us out of child

protective services bullshit. She had to go back to work not long after the cops left. I

don’t recall how long it was between her leaving and grandmas return home. But when

grandma did get back home, her brother was gone. The white hawks finally came to get

him I reckon. And everyone was full of grief. My mama told me she was proud of me.

And that was nice. I understand that it was a lot going on. Tyler didn’t even get a

whoopin/ and he should have let’s be real. That might have made me feel better. But I

still say somebody should have gave me some money or bought me a new dress or

new shoes or wrote me a card or did something special so as to say that being an

extraordinary Black girl is not just some regular kinda thing.