To: M’reld Green.
From: Tameka Haywood
Written by: eZv
He holds a girl child on his right hip
His stage name must be dad
Because he has entertainment of an infant
Down to a science
Making sure she isn’t overly absorbed
With her reflection in the mirrored ceiling
He makes his girl child watch her mom
Read a poem about her big brother
From a page full of
Red inked stanzas.
She writes blank verse
In baby gibberish
About household pets
And plants that make her feel she’s
In a jungle every time she crawls
Into the dining room
How amazing it must be to know that
You’re a poet before you can walk.
To know your parents might be cool enough
To let you get your first tattoo at sixteen
As long as you showed them the design
Complete with a written explanation
As to why this ink must permeate your skin
At this moment
She’s a girl child spawn
From a love that most say
You shant indulge in…
“Never. Fuck. A. Poet.”
Should we not have our own breed?
Breastfeeding newborns with limericks
And giving them block puzzles of Shakespeare’s pentameter.
They could be scolded in assonance
And praised in free verse
You would know how their day of school went
From the use of their stressed syllables
And when she turns 12…
She will perfect the hyperbole.
All grievances will be submitted verbally
In three minutes or less
Void of any grace periods.
A P.K. (…a poet’s kid)
Will be much like a preacher’s kid.
Reckless. Flippant. Quick to fuck.
They will explore sexuality
While claiming to hate poetry out of spite.
And by the time she turns seventeen.
She will write love notes in seventeen syllables
That teachers won’t be able to decipher
My locker is closed
You have the combination
Unlock it tonight.
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