My Daughter

My daughter is the color of bittersweet chocolate.

In my eyes, she is perfect and beautiful and precious.  A gift.

Today she bore the crushing weight of being the only at something.  She struggled to fit in.

She longs for silky smooth hair.  She has wild gorgeous Afro hair.  She wants to be all pink porcelain with rosy flushed cheeks at the end.  She is chalky and uneven and even the darkest blush doesn't show on her.

I get to live with the constant look of surprise on some one's face when it all falls together that she is my daughter.  Over and over people say to me, "oh, she's your daughter?" in front of her, as if she doesn't understand what you imply.

She's 5 and I'm tired of explaining and defending.  I'm tired of the lack of understanding.

I'm tired of telling people yes, I do in fact, love my daughter just as much, just the same, as the kids that came from my very own anatomy.

A bond is not formed by umbilical cord or nursing nipple.

She is not less because she is the color of bittersweet chocolate.

And you had better not make her life bittersweet or less because you can't see past it.