Remember the old voices?
The ones which said my skin was not smart enough after they baked me there to build their mother's dreams, their father's fantasies, their daughter's dollhouses bigger than our homes, her teacups filled with milk and honey by a lighter us, as granny, my granny, your granny, our grannies - ladies of valour - were discarded into pits of death covered with the shame of hands not free, covered shards of you and me - skin like the earth, mind like backdrops of a galaxy?
The old voices, the ones which threaded in clothes from yesteryear's dead sister, thought that dark, black me was nothing, held nothing, would be nothing, thought nothing of black. The fool fooled you, if you thought black meant empty. This melanin multiplied is all encompassing, existed before you, with you, beneath you, above you, and will always be what you are not. This "not smart enough" baked to build palaces, this - ENOUGH - never left me, never leaves me, always
onwards, forwards, enough