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  • Writer's picturedanyeli

letter to the last man I loved - "undocumented black boy"

Updated: Aug 1, 2019

letter to the last man I loved,

I am the woman after the girl talking and you are no longer the light at the end of the tunnel. you are the tunnel itself. let every woman before me and after know that I loved you into a better version of yourself. you and they are all welcome.

I don’t love you anymore, but black boy, I still owe you an apology.

you were never meant to become an ex. a crossroad. an intersection of mass incarceration and deportation. you did not fly over three continents to be called dangerous.

undocumented black boy, I am sorry.

that they use you for target practice. that when the guns don’t work, they use deportation as an alternative. that they loaded their riffle with xenophobia and racism and renamed you two birds, one stone. but if I could make a metamorphosis out of every argument we ever had and every toxic word we ever whispered, I’d turn them into love letters and deliver them straight to the heart of every bigot who has never been blinded by the beauty of your smile.

undocumented black boy,

when they call your smile a grimace, talking back and snappin’ back. when there are too many witnesses to take your life, so instead they ask you for your papers, remind them of this Dominican woman you don’ did everything to, who still forgave you. an atheist you made believer enough to pray for you every day to come home. you make impossible possible. how dare they mess with you.

undocumented black boy,

four years have passed since we moved on. since I opened up my wings and let you go, yet here I am. waiting on your call. for the day you finally swallow that pride and whisper those three beautiful words. ones that will crack me open, like I.C.E does on NYC sidewalks as I slip and fall all over again. please, finally tell me, I am safe. no need to worry about my deportation or death anymore.

undocumented black boy,

I still pray your best friend never calls me sobbing because a cop confused your hands for shotguns. your wit for resistance. and dares to call your existence illegal. I hope I get to see the day that another woman creates a child with your eyes. that day you walk down the isle dressed in nothing but survival. show me that prayers do in fact work because I get to see you grow old with the woman you love. you see, the only thing more painful than you moving on is you never having the ability to do so.

so, do so. live. breathe. remember there’s an atheist Dominican woman you don’ did everything to, who ‘til this day prays for your safety.


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