Your soft voice repeated superstar in my head,

When I walked to school,

When I did homework,

Before I slept.

Today, in our assembly, they spoke about supernovas and superstars.

I was intrigued, and again, daddy, your voice was in my head.

You may be in the cold grave,

But warm filled my heart when I heard you, daddy.

Fear condenses on my lips at the white man before me,

I’m scared, daddy, I’m scared.

Save me. Save me. Save me.

I’m only twelve, daddy, you were only forty.

The white man is writhing in disgust; why can’t you save me, daddy?

You always used to. Always promised you would.

Why can’t you save me, daddy?

I’m only twelve, daddy. Why can’t you save me?

I touch my dark face, covering a scream,

The white man plunges, casting for my organs.

Daddy, save me.

Why can’t you save me?

You remind me about the assembly one Friday afternoon in primary,

About how my black teacher spoke more about supernovas:

How they are, in fact, dying stars

On the verge of becoming black holes.