When I think of you
or of what you could be,
all I can know for sure is that
you are beautiful.

Sometimes I imagine you
with a curtain of ebony hair
(sometimes it’s red like the sunrise we see
as I drive you to school each day)
and a stack of books cradled in your arms
(sometimes you ask me to read to you—
Langston & Lewis & Luke’s Gospel).
You say phrases like:
“Momma,
(Oh, just hearing you call me so!)
I hate boys;
all I want to do is read,”
--A woman after my own heart.

But even if you inherit my
troublesome, rebellious brown & gold curls,
and you fumble with a tennis racket and those yellow-green bullets,
a gym bag slung over your shoulder,
I’ll still want
to spread peanut butter on your crust-cut-off bread,
to tuck your sheets in on your little twin mattress,
and search for that lost ladybug sock in the dryer
(but only because it’s your favourite).

I know you’re beautiful;
not because of your genes,
or because you’re my daughter,
but because you’re completely you,
and I
       (already)
love you this way.