Dear future daughter,

 

I do not know you yet as I write this.

And there is so much I’d like to say to you

I could wrap the world with my words.

But here is the gist of it:

 

I hope that you

will someday look down upon your body,

and smile at your stretch marks.

You are wilderness, girl,

and your skin clearly cannot contain you.

I hope you look down,

run fingers over soft fat,

and grin at your body’s bashful endearment.

It loves you so much it pads itself

to protect the precious soul that dances beneath your ribs.

I hope you aren’t ashamed of those love letters.

 

I hope that you

are never ashamed of your differences.

We are all vibrant flowers springing from the soil,

and I hope you are proud of your unique colors,

though those who came from a patch of pruned petunias may say you are too wild.

To them I hope you know to gently laugh,

and say that no rainbow is made of one color.

 

I hope that you

never run hands over invisible scars

of ghost hands on your ass,

mortified fire on your cheeks.

I hope someday you will walk down the street,

hips swinging,

lips grinning,

and a man shouts

“I love your outfit

and where did you get those heels?”

 

I hope that you

know your power.

Know that you are descended

from Persephone,

who grew tired of innocence and pretty flowers,

stepped sure-footed and wild down into hell,

and placed that crown on her own head.

From Atalanta,

who decided she bowed to no man,

ran untamable and windswept,

her own fate in her palms.

From the mighty Amazons,

who knew strength like they knew beauty,

that is to say, they knew it was one and the same,

as diverse as the flora in the forests they roamed.

 

I suppose what I want to say, darling,

is that I will fight

so the world is good to you

where it was not good to me.

 

Love,

your past mother