Below is the last of the four new poems by Jenny Mitchell to mark Black History Month. For some background to the poem, see here and here.
The Queen Turned Black
by Jenny Mitchell
When granny dies, her skin transforms,
not limb by limb but all at once –
dark brown becomes red, white and blue.
Her hair has lost its kink, becomes a stately crown.
I’m not surprised. She loved Great Britain
even when in ’56 a turd slipped
through her letterbox. Neighbours called police
in ’58 to say her bible class – loud prayers
to a blond-haired Jesus – sent them mad.
More than once in ’63, the local press reported
that her house became a den of vice – Black
Madame Must Be Stopped!
She used the settlements to build a large extension.
Most recently, the man next door, caped
in a Union Jack, ordered her to go back home
with the other immigrants. Home was called
the Mother Country where the Queen
once welcomed her, waving from a balcony.
Now ever since she died, the Queen has been
transformed, her skin turned black,
her hair a tall, soft afro. She lies
next to my granny in a special plot, white
roses planted close. Are they holding
hands, having shared so much?
