Black Son

Sometimes I can’t sleep, just thinking about my Black Son. As he grows older, his baby cheeks seem to fade away, replaced by the definition that he is coming into manhood. His once small pudgy hands are now bigger than mine and his brown melinanated hues glisten like a target on a riffle range.

I know I am not alone in my fear for my Black Son, who doesn’t understand that there has been a murder every 3rd day in Charlotte and the kids that I know bully him, will be an even greater challenge when he is grown.

I sometimes can’t sleep, thinking about my brown son. Me and his daddy didn’t work it out and him being raised in a household of women. Academically having difficulty, school districts not knowing what to give him. 

Everyday I am frightened for my Black Son, you see Roblox and tablets are his toys, desensitized by this world he is in, as time goes on I have to be his advocate not his friend . . . 

I am mortified by what’s happening to our Black sons. All reflections of one another, we have to raise them not competitive but to be brothers.

My Black Son can not be erased, a victim of society, he must not face. Starting clearly today, not forgetting those lost. I have to let his daddy train him to be a man and instill in him that God is his boss. I have to distinguish a culture of violence and not let my baby go silent, not let my baby go silent, not let my baby go silent. 

Sometimes I can’t sleep, thinking about my Black Son.