Jamilla D. VanDyke-Bailey
THE GIRL AND THE NAPPY HALO
As I settle into my pregnancy, I fantasize about the human I’m going to bring into the world. I picture a girl. Beautiful. Black. Freckled like her father. Myopic like me. Some nights, I think I hear her calling me mama and telling me that she loves me. I also fantasize about my daughter asking a phrase etched into the genetic code of Black women everywhere: How much hair is left?
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