Dear Black Girl

I come from a lineage of Black women

whose hands hold history too rich to be buried.

They sprout from the soil of my dreams,

so far away in time,

yet so close I can feel them budding in my smile.

Each womb is a seed.

Each Black girl a stem,

and from it, I bloom.

There are no words to describe the resilience of blackness.

The body that refuses to sink,

to travel land and sea in search of a time machine.

If my arms could stretch back 12 years long I would teach my younger self how to stay afloat.

Once upon a time, she wished her curls would soften,

wished they would uncoil themselves between her fingertips.

If younger me could rewrite God’s story,

she would sink into the white of the canvas and not come out.

She would teach her curls a lesson for not obeying her.

To be black and a woman all at once is to be stranded on a boat at sea,

unable to swim, and unable to sink.

But today don’t drown.

Today I let the salt in my skin balance me buoyant, my hair a cotton candy float above the water.

And I see,

for the very first time,

that God made my skin deep enough to resemble the night sky, and the ocean.

I am both sea and starlight.

A clear sky and a gentle storm.

Black women are a kaleidoscope constellation of starlight.

A meteor shower of black and gold.

They are the glitter in God’s craftsmanship,

streaking the night sky like shooting stars.

Dear Black Girl.

Black is not a stain on the canvas of your skin.

Black is the ink that bleeds from God’s pen.

You are his poetry.

He dotted every line, crossed every crevice.

Your skin is not a stain, but a stamp of stories passed from womb to womb.

A package of all things light in the world delivered to your mother,

and her mothers mother.

A legacy of breath and bones, of skin and soil.

Handpicked limbs, rounded noses,

Your story being written on the page of your life before the womb and isn’t that proof,

That just like art,

We are meant to live forever?

Dear Black Girl.

Black is the richness of fruit grown on good soil.

Of roots that stretch back in time, and a legacy that now waters you.

Your hair holds more history than textbooks have words to write about.

Your lungs hold more language than every word your ancestors cannot speak.

When you cannot look yourself in the mirror,

Look to the ground beneath your feet.

Learn from the wisdom of your shadow.

Crawl when you cannot stand.

Be boldest in the light,

Even if all you are now is an outline of yourself.

Show the ground you cannot be buried.

about the poet

Akilah Walcott is a Black Guyanese woman, writer, and singer with a passion for storytelling. Her artistic spirit blossomed as she folded herself between the pages of creative writing as a child. In the softness of adolescence, she also discovered a deep appreciation for music. Language and music became a meeting place.

Akilah’s work has been published in Trad Magazine, Pitch Magazine and Jayu Poetry Zine. Her music and spoken word has been showcased in collaboration with organizations like Sisters In Sync, Hamilton You Poets, ACCPI and Nia Center of the Arts. Most recently, her poem “Shadow” was selected for a billboard feature for Brampton Arts Organization’s Poetry Project. In addition to her artistry, Akilah is a Registered Nurse in pediatrics by profession, and is proud to have the art of creation in all aspects of her life.