Is she adopted?

My daughter, my first born, 6 months old with fair skin, my kin.
Fairer than the white women who stare, examine and question

her skin with my features, my features with her skin
as if together they are a sin.

Race-related assumptions behind the implications.
We don’t “match” preconceived notions of what my family should look like.

Silently questioning what kind of daughter, I can produce
with these thighs, with these hips, with these lips
that tickle her sweet little cheeks while I bounce her on those cute little feet.

So, they ask, as if the answer will give them closure.
A puzzle their minds just can’t put together.

How can they dare? They don’t care about us.
They don’t know me, but they could have known me.
In the past, they could have owned me.

Therein lie their problems and explains why they feel entitled to solve them.

So, I answer, “After 30 hours of labor it’s safe to say she’s mine.”