An Ode to the white woman who no one asked 

by Elizabeth Upshur

Tennessee, USA

TW // language

Fuck. You.

In a completely non-sexual, non-patriarchal way

that expresses how you look at me with my skin and my hair

huddled under the black blazer all excited for a conference

panel on the ethics of forgiveness and thought I, of all people,

had nothing to contribute and certainly couldn’t be trusted

to say a word like “restitution” as an essential, non-negotiable—

do you mean restoration?

Bitch.

If I meant that, I would have said that.

The way you shank my feet as if to say I don’t belong

in this upper echelon of the ivory tower.

FUCK. YOU.

It is 11 in the morning, too early, as always for a microaggression

that is steeped in legalese and making waves in the nation, a word

and significance more involved, righteous, and compelling than

your slip of the tongue aside that absolves you without the faintest

hint of actual repentance that is so clearly repulsive, vile, and foreign

to you.