My womb tightens with tension
Protecting the ovaries that would help create my yet unborn children
Every day I read the news my body cringes
Thinking of all the fathers and mothers praying that it wasn’t their
child
Being a cousin, daughter, a sister, a lover
A woman of color
That is more than enough pain, enough anxiety and trauma
Holding my hand to my stomach, I hope that by the time I’m ready the
world is more loving to my children
That they may love their mocha skin
as much as I will teach my children to
That they may embrace their wavy,
thick, rich hair when I style my children’s hair or let it run wild in a huge
afro
That they recognize and marvel at
their heritage and their resilient history as my children walk down the street
with pride
But for now, I pray for all the fathers and mothers hoping that it wasn’t
their child
For all the cousins, daughters, sisters, lovers
For all the men, and women of color
