Character I See

My 6-year old calls us pink
Though Caucasian we may be.
Still character I preach,
To these souls trusted to thee.

Mr. King spoke of this
Not so long ago.
Many dreams I can't recall;
So many I don't know.

Her assignment lay upon my desk,
though she's only 6-years old.
"What is Character?" she asks.
I say, "Inside where we are bold."

I think of King and character.
I think of what it means.
I ponder thoughts despairing
And envy fruitful dreams.

"What is bold?" She presses on.
"It's guts inside that make us speak."
"Like Martin Luther King?" She asks.
"Just like that." I say quite meek.

How many dreams have I pursued;
Dreams strong enough to start?
How many have I taken
To the end with all my heart?

"So, if I have Character..." She asks.
"My insides come out my mouth?"
I study her face and know she knows
Right here in ole down South.

I worried when we moved
From way up North to here,
That these souls within my care
Would suffer peer to peer.

"Then I guess I'll write about my friends."
She says with certainty.
"Because I love 'em inside out
Whatever color skin I see."

I smile deeper in my heart
Than the smile she may see.
For I know the fight of "Character"
Starts with souls trusted to me.