Daughter

On seeing my light skin, the nurse asked my father, you sure she’s yours? Of course he was sure. He’d braced his hands on mama’s belly and coaxed me into this world. We delighted in burrowing our fingers into each other’s Afros, my father on his knees, me on my tiptoes. Wary of our kindred spirits, my mother took me away. Seeing my mother’s white complexion, melanin blooming in my skin, they asked, You sure she’s yours? Of course she was sure. She’d delivered me, read to me, pointed out the constellations. Consider giving her away, they said.

https://threadliterary.com/flash/

Gila K. Berryman  July 2018