He’s Black and I’m Proud
He’s Black and I’m proud,
as all mothers are, and
also as no mother has ever been before.
I adore
his tan skin
which I cannot see myself in.
But, it’s easy to know he’s mine when he asks to paint,
or cook,
or when I catch him staying up too late to read in bed.
And, in summer, when the sun paints some
of his curls like red, desert mud
you can see my love.
He’s Black and I’m proud,
but also ignorant
of what’s to come.
How can I teach him to survive,
thrive,
as a Black man in America?
How can I teach him to stay safe in this place where
my privilege has made my safety a given?
I can’t give that to him.
My skin is protected by the SPF of history
but my son burns so easily.
I try to cover him
like a beach umbrella,
but I can only stretch so far.
He’s Black and I’m proud,
and scared.
Skin like his
is in every newspaper
crime blotter,
memorial,
and on headstones.
I wish my womb was bulletproof,
but it’s not.
He’s Black and I’m proud,
and ignorant,
and scared,
but not giving up.
There is too much life in him to throw my hands up
or to surrender to fear.
Yes, history is clear
but the future is his.
He’s Black and I’m Proud.