a black girl don’t have room to dream

a poem by Jessica Hite

the women in my family

have lived like ghosts—

present, yet tucked away.

wombs abandoned

on fertile ground.

waiting for the sky

to open up and

swallow them

before the blood

washes through them

and makes them mothers.

but the only thing

they’ve ever carried

was a heart too big

for anyone to hold.

a thing that’s been

halved and torn

from too long of being told

that they’re too black

for much more

than a crisp apron

and a life half lived.

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