Writing toward an imaginary son

I will not start by addressing this to you,
no one can load you with the language of bibs
when you still don't know these fingers are yours
how would you when I do not explain?

now, I will tell you one thing: you are beautiful
because you are mine and I am possessive,
I craft you with color- the way glass bubbles shape
blow onto your imperfections till they cool and round

you like a valid creation, a mixture of genealogy and gems
rosy cheeks I can pinch when my muse leaves for Africa
little chit-chat, a story box for when my close women friends
forget to invite me to sewing because I'm not good with gold thread

the color of your hair, I will not define
if it sparkles in direct light, or frizzes under water
I can only assure you that it has the softness of waterfalls,
the fall of neighing horses, the stubbornness of donkeys

I will I promise, consider taking you out, no one will see
if you've stained a shirt or threw a tantrum
we'd sit in the park, you will run along as I'd pretend to read
when you come back with bruises and tear stains,
I'll kiss your scrapes, bless your fears and mine

and in the summer when the kites are high and the birds are low
our ground will be swimming pools, bodies of ice-cream and waves
where we'd dunk our worries like tea-bags
the darker, the deeper- no sugarcoating or floaters for our skins

Writing toward an imaginary son

sometimes your image confuses me, clear and sharp
Must I explain more? like all new mothers
I cannot have the answers lined up. You are difficult,
mind you some days, you are the size of the ocean,
made with late night biscuits
other days you are my selfish desire
to stay without an end

There's much more I will lay onto you
like the blanket I'd weave with unisex colors, and sunshine
if you could turn into flesh, and blood
my own, impossibility.