It is a Black girl's birthday somewhere.
Her hair is in two big cloud-like puffs with
coloured beads that jingle every time she moves.
Click-clacking as she turns her head on a swivel.
She is not worried about
Her brother
and whether or not him having his hood up will make a difference
in the eyes of others.
It probably won't.
Or what it looks like if he idles on a street corner for even a second to tie his shoe.
She is not worried about
Her mother
Or her father.
She is not worried about
what is scrawled in bathroom stalls or etched into desks.
She is not worried.
That is not what this is about.
It’s about her sitting at the table smiling and swarmed by brown bodies.
They are singing
Are you one? Are you two?
Eating each syllable, a whispered prayer for something good.
To her it sounds like a ticking time bomb.
She’s a master at pretending that
that is not what this is about.
Everything is okay.
She closes her eyes and blows out the candles. She’s just turned nine.
It feels like there are too many brown bodies out there and
not enough birthdays.