To my unborn child:
I’m sorry I brought you into a world where you are not wanted
Im sorry that all your dreams are taken for granted
When you should stand up, I raise you to be grounded
I’m sorry that when Rosa sat on the bus I didn’t sit with her
When Martin said march, their hearts were bitter
Gunshots and chokeholds made us non-believers
And yet they call Malcolm X a deceiver
I’m sorry that you fear walking down the streets
When you should stand up, they put you down on your knees
When you do stand up, they stomp you with their feet
So excuse me, India Arie, but I am my hair.
Let me tell you about this self-love affaire
See each curl is a curve of my dignity
Even if they claim its my malignity
See my sun-kissed skin forms a goddess
“From head to toe,” Miles Hodges.
So as your eyes follow the meanders of my body,
Remember that I wasn’t made to please you
And as you sink in judgments, little girl
Remember that not everything they say is true
Written by Habiba Orsud.
