9.5.86. Born. On the day. Doctors said so. Mamma asked for relief. From pain. 12 hours. No epidural. Mercy. She told aunt Cassie she was gonna die. Does a newborn recognize the repudiation of Black pain? I came out. Black. Dark. Bald. Eyes. Grey. Melanin delayed. Daddy. Was. On the inside. But he still gave me his hands. His height. His love for love. Grandpa told Ma thank you. Nose as flat as my back when Ma first burped me. Grandma spoke to Ma for the first time in months. Out of wedlock. Young. Birthed from the inextinguishable blaze that the fire hoses couldn't knock down to its knees. Free Black love. Daddy said he’d skate all the way from Columbia Heights to my grandmas. To see Ma. Singing. Both ways. His voice wrapped in the asphalt we built that made the wolves run west. 35. Three plus five is eight. The symbol of resurrection. Infinity. Trying. Again and again. I'm here. 📸 @downsouthishome