Dear Black Mothers,
I am sorry that your moments of powerful love were twisted into existential fear.
I am sorry that at a time you should be able to revel in your child’s natural life, you are made to feel deep doubts of their very existence.
That the monsters you protected them from underneath their beds have transitioned into real ones in the outside world.
Hell, they are still busting in their bedrooms–guns blazing.
While, we, the villagers just looked on.
I know you felt it. As a mother you have that bond.
That other-worldly, celestial, I carried you for nine months or so while you fed off of my body, heart, and soul bond.
Could never be cut once the cord is gone
It still thrived there within the bosom their little bodies nourished from
It still manifested itself when they moved away from home for the first time and you both dream of dreams that were much more than love and hope and fear.
It was there when you raised up one, not of your own blood but of your own spirit.
That stellar, blessed, divine bond.
I know you felt it.
When your child,
the human you created, molded,
blessed as you kissed their boo-boos away left this Earth.
No. Not left.
It wasn’t by choice that you’re little cherub with ten tiny toes and ten tiny fingers transcended to a bigger human to an angel, again.
Some didn’t even make it to adulthood.
No. Not make it. Their growth was stunted.
It wasn’t by choice that your babygirl with black curls and beautiful smile stopped breathing.
It wasn’t by choice that your lil shy boy who you always dreamt about becoming a beautiful grown man with more dreams than nightmares took his last breath.
No. Not that he took his last breath.
It was taken from him.
I am sorry that as a village we failed to stop the monsters from ripping your bonds.
And now, after many of your children are still being slaughtered like God’s lambs
We, the villagers, vow to make a stand
That your bonds may never be torn by the monsters’ hands.