Clinic

She walked in with her mama at her side

holding her hand.

She was but a child.

A baby not yet ready to have one of her own,

but I knew she wanted to.

I could tell from her

puffy red eyes

and the tight grip that her

mother had on her arm.

She wasn’t as calm as the girl

across the room

reading Vogue magazine

with her eyes low

and her legs crossed.

It was her mama that didn’t want this.

Her daughter was just a child forced to lay her back

down on a dirty mattress

with her eyes closed

and her legs spread.

To her it was her fault that her baby

was left with an absentee father

and with a mother who ignored

her countless cries for help.

She holds her daughter tightly

in fear that she might fall into the reality

that she failed at being her protector.

But what she doesn't realize is that

her daughter don’t care about her guilt,

just about how to get out of this

inner city clinic on the south side of Chicago.

White lady at the desk don’t care

about no mommy problems

just about the problem in her belly.

Her hand out impatiently waiting for the credit

card that had no credit

and forcing a smile that had no understanding.

She’s just a child,

wanting to be the mother her

mother never was to her,

wanting to have at least one

person in this world who loves her.

Who loves her

dark kinky hair,

brown skin,

wide nose,

brown eyes.

I wanted to reach out to her,

to hold her,  and to tell her that

she is beautiful,

that her smile is radiant,

that everything would be okay.

But I just sat there,

next to the girl reading Vogue magazine

holding my own mother’s hand.

I was but a child.