Concrete Kids

concrete kidsFor Harlem & its angelsThis is for the concrete kids. The kids with a melanin kiss. The kids drenched in poverty. The kids who are told to cut their hair, to tame their tone. The kids who are told to shorten their names and disappear their tongues. The kids who are told they will amount to nothing. The smart kids who are told they are problematic. The problematic kids who are told they are stupid. The kids who are taking care of their families in between extracurriculars. The kids who cannot go to extracurriculars because they are taking care of their families. The stoop kids.  The hungry kids. The thirsty kids.  The foster kids. The kids who aged out of the system.  The missing kids. The homeless kids. The kids in jail. The kids awaiting trial. The innocent kids. The kids who never got to be kids. The kids navigating the violence of hands. The kids who are being taught to fear themselves. The kids who refuse. The kids in gangs. The kids thinking about joining gangs. The kids who started them. The adults they became. The adults who wait for the blood to dry out in the sun with the laundry. The kids who bury the adults. The adults who bury the kids.The angels they became. The angels they will become.More specifically—this is for the boy in the white tee and the breath I saw escape him.gardeniasThe thing about things that drownIs that they never learn to breathe rightNo one ever told themOf a lifeWithout strainA constant chokingBegging for permissionTo remainLimbless in limboCalling on the Good LordFor some easeA terrifying permissionComes with youthThe way our bodiesSelflessly unfoldBefore the altarA sacred celebrationOf gardenias in bloomEden welcoming the ruinI was born somewhere in New York City on May 15, 1992. I do not know the time of day or recall the scent of birth, but I am sure I arrived screaming like everyone else.pigmentAll of me is brownMy eyes, my hairMy skinI do not know        My fatherThe source        is a figmentof melanin        of imaginationI have never met himBarbie looks like my motherWho does not look like meBlond hair blue eyesAnd a White bodyMy reflectionBetrays easilyAs I yearnfor pieces of herTo stare back at methere is lovethere is lovethere is lovethere is questioningThere are no Black BarbiesMy mother hand paintsthem brownI do not knowIf this makes meFeel betterThere’s no way toFabricate realitySo we might as wellLet barbie beBarbiekelly be Kelly& ken be KenI do notNeed toBe WhiteLike her, like themTo love the skinThat I am in