A Letter to Black Women Raising Black Sons

Cherish those nine months

Those are the only guaranteed moments

The second he is born

Not a single moment is guaranteed

At a moments notice his soul can be ripped from his body

A stray bullet

A too tight choke hold

Or a drug overdose

Can send a stream of tears

Rushing over

The edges of your sharp cheekbones

Sliding down

The slopes of your chin

Taking a plummet

To the dark abyss of the ground below

In praise to your fallen son

Whenever you get a chance to hold your Black Boy

Try to hold him tight

Try to transfer your


Into his heart


Into his spirit


Into his soul

Let him know

He doesn’t have to wear a mask

He can be whoever or whatever he wants

Let him know

The chips may be stacked against him


He comes from a strong legacy of Kings and Queens

His Black skin—a testament of his birthright to his ancestor’s kingdom

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