When the officers only gave you two seconds
before shooting
when you deserved thousands,
infinity more.

When the first minute passed without you
receiving first aid.
When the second minute passed
and your body used stillness to beg for hands

on your 12-year-old chest,
for hands on your swelling abdomen,
for hands holding your unarmed hands,
for hands up, don’t shoot.

When the third minute passed
And the snow beneath you knew you
better than we did. Melting under you,
crying on your clothes.

When the fourth minute passed.

When your sister screamed and ran toward you,
And the officers pushed her to the ground
handcuffed her, put her in the police car
but wouldn’t touch you.

When the Cleveland Police Department
hired an officer who “could not follow simple directions.”
When the police dispatcher didn’t tell him that the pistol
was “probably a fake” and that you were “probably a juvenile.”

When the U.S. Justice System blamed you
and not him.
Blamed you and not our trigger-happy,
trigger-biased country.

When I forgot your name in August.
It was sunny but I was foggy and thought
maybe it was Walter, or Michael, or Laquan,
or Eric, or Trayvon, or Emmett.