Daughter
I will not speak to you about the harm men do
I see in your steady gaze and headstrong ways
(from the moment you drew breath)
that you will never use a man for a mirror
and no man will ever use you for any reason
But if you do (and if he does), remember
We are all fools
Just don’t be the same fool twice
I will not speak of marrying black
I will speak of marrying well
(if I speak of it at all)
You chafe at my ignorance
Calling you black when you are so obviously brown —
Always define such things for yourself
I will not speak of loving your body
You must fall in love with it your own way
I fell deeply in love
As I carried you
The life-giving curve and swell of me
Ceased to be loathsome
But I will speak of loving what you do
Never be practical — I already paid that debt for you
You refuse to accept that today is today
when yesterday, it was tomorrow —
you will not accept anyone’s limits
you will shatter glass ceilings
I will not speak of the three generations before us
They leave a strange inheritance:
tolerating the blessing of longevity
as if a curse
Keep up your whirling, twirling fearless dance
until your long, lean legs — withered
and having never known boundaries —
tap dance to your grave
And if your legs fail,
Sing
to let the angels know you’re coming
But I will speak of our blood —
that potent potable for thirsty interlopers
— equal parts Atlantic salt and Georgia clay,
bullwhip bitters with a twist of freedom,
and Reconstruction nightmares
until Jim ate Crow
— shaken and stirred, a legacy of insane hope
Be sure to swallow it whole
There is no place, no time
for blame
for shame
except this:
Daughter, I have tainted this blood
Me
Not plantation boogie men, white-collar con men,
or dread-locked pseudo-righteous men
Me
A recessive trait
so slippery disguising itself as love
Hear me when I tell you
its true nature:
a predisposition to slow-drag with obsession
to go belly-to-belly with infatuation
to mistake recklessness for adventure
to take a treasure for granted and call it art —
On second thought,
ignoring my mother worked wonders for me —
perhaps I will not speak at all.