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Mixed Babies

When my sister told me

She wanted to marry a white person

So she could have beautiful mixed babies.


I was shook.

For a while I was angry with her.

What's wrong with being black?

Black is beautiful.


Black is-


Then I remembered

How I used to be just like her

Afraid of my own blackness

Hating the skin I was born in as if

The minute I was born

Dirt and grime latched onto me

Embedding itself into my skin.


I abhor the thought of ever procreating

With someone who looked like me

As if having black children was

Some kind of curse.


So I forgave her and instead

Hated myself.

For my sister is a canvas

Stained by my paintbrush of imperfections.


I wonder just how much of

My bad habits she has made hers

I hope one day she will forgive me for all

The wrong I have taught her.


One day I hope she sees her beauty

How beautiful her skin is

Illuminating the sun itself.

I hope she finds it in her heart to love

Her dark curly coils

For they are a crown of excellence

Resting upon great shoulders.


I hope she understands that

The world often fears great things,

Making them feel small and insignificant

So they do not discover themselves

And the greatness they possess.





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