Another Black Floyd

By Linda Floyd

George, I don’t know how many of us are here who share your Texas line of long chocolate bodies who can dance on and off the court with a smile that warms the heart how many share my Mississippi roots with light skin and blonde curls who prefer their mustards without meat, their tea without sweet because none of these traits matter George

as no shared DNA is needed to make you kin, and call you ‘Bro

because I, too, am a Floyd and I gasp again and again with a heavy and sad heart when I hear your call for Mama while you begged that man not to silence your voice, your breath, your spirit with his knee George, I am back now where I came from scared and angry and filled up seeing images of our people hanging from a tree dragged by a car beaten with a whip all with tied hands begging for one more breath that didn’t come for they were just like us, George, born black, given the same name

I can’t cry anymore and won’t gasp anymore Mama I can’t breathe.

Linda Floyd was born in Mississippi 62 years ago, and now lives in Oregon. She shares the family name of George Floyd and wrote this piece in pain shortly after his death.

Calling all creatives! It’s time for BW’s sixth annual short fiction contest. Submit up to five stories of 101 words or fewer to editorial@boulderweekly.com by midnight Sunday, June 28. Winners, honorable mentions and finalists will be published in mid- July.