Alafia Nicole Sessions



My mother’s mother was the color of rain soaked earth
My daughter the color of lukewarm morning breast milk on kitchen floor
(Of course I cried the first time mine spilled)

Would my grandma understand that I love a white man
The same kind who launched hot rocks at her head and back
(Black while trying to buy a bag of flour for morning biscuits)

Same kind who raped her sister on dusty closet floor
After she wet nursed his babies and scrubbed thrice daily
(You know a housemaid makes an honest living)

Same kind who turned your brown
And on-death’s-door daughter away from the hospital,
(My mother’s untreated childhood rheumatic fever would become adolescent heart disease)

Would she understand that a white man loves me?