Black Girl, this poem is for you.

For the moment you need a reminder.

Black girl, your name is not synonymous with angry.

Nor is it kin to aggressive, eggshells, loud, dominant, rude — or any of the words they use to describe your fire.

This is the first thing.

Black girl, you do not have to be eloquent to be heard.

You do not have to carefully construct sentences using a language that is not your native tongue, speak your true words. Things get lost in translation.

Black girl, silence does not have to swallow you. You do not need to watch the words you wish you would have said fall into a black hole of violence.

Black girl, you are not a contortionist. You do not need to bend and fold yourself into a mold that will only morph once you are successful, the ever moving goal post of acceptance.

Black girl, you do not have to do magic, you already are.

Black girl, your body has been made into bridges, staircases, and roads, to be walked over, walked up, and walked on. Your body has been made into shields, to be stood behind and sacrificed. Your body has felt the pain of labor only to later feel the pain of grief.

But Black girl, you are more than your sacrifices.