If I Were To Have a Black Baby Girl

I would tell her everything I wish I could’ve told myself

A piece of prose:

She would be like a flower that I could watch bloom. I would give her the right soil, the right foundation, and just enough water for her to make her own energy, words of wisdom for her to use her best judgement for.

I would tell her everything I wish I could’ve told myself.

I would tell her about what I’ve learned.

I would tell her that her skin is a gift, but not her only gift.

I would tell her that there would be people that would love her just because of her skin and people who would hate her for it.

Both groups, I would tell her to avoid.

I would tell her that skin folk doesn’t mean kinfolk.

The ones with her skin tone may not feel the same way about it as she will.

I would tell her that appreciation and fetishization are not the same thing.

I would tell her that she doesn’t have to settle.

I would tell her it is not her job to fix her partner and that Black love does not equate to struggle love no matter how many movies are made about it.

I would tell her standing out in a crowd is an easy way to get noticed and to use it to her advantage.

“Your skin will leave an impression, accent that with your personality.”

I would tell her not to feel obligated to fit in.

The standards weren’t set to accommodate her in the first place.

Instead, I would tell her to make her own mold.

To be Black and a woman may seem to mean being cursed with two evils.

I would tell her that that isn’t true.

I would tell her that the sun was on her side, that she should use each day to her advantage.

I would tell her that the sun loved her so much that it kissed her and ensures she shines whenever she goes outside.

If I were to have a Black baby girl, I would tell her she is beautiful — all of her. She is beautiful. She is life. She is beautiful.

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