“your baby wants you”
and then hand him off to me
he has learned to hold his arms out
when he sees my face
and the afternoons of watching him try to walk
learning his smile – the smile that is shy and proud
and never reaches his absent eyes
and holding him to my heart when he cries
trying to absorb his pain into myself
i feel every tiny sob
like he is knitting our souls together
i want to save him
(by putting him in danger?)
i want to take him away
(from the place where he belongs?)
and daily i fight the instinct
to protect him from this place
where there is glass under his feet
every step could cut him wide open
and the sheer terror of knowing
i can only watch
as he gets hurt
only listen to his pain
only pray for hope to accompany trauma
because my rescue – so tempting
would put new glass, invisible but sharp
under my baby’s feet
the glass of white privilege and racism
of being a minority in my world
glass like people never understanding him
the glass of not knowing his people,
his culture, his language,
of having roots
even if his are damaged
the glass of a mama who looks different
who doesn’t get it
and this is his home,
my heart cries.
he’ll learn to walk soon
he will learn Swahili, a language i do not have
maybe he forgets me
maybe leaving isn’t forever and i get to hold him again
but he belongs here
even with the glass
because i can’t do better
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