Two score, a dime and one less than a nickel
Her leg was healed, but it would break
about seven more times, but thrice healed after the first
that’s how birth is discussed on the plantation
the only occupation for mothers are producers
producers of the next generations of males
males that only have dreams of bling
manufacturing females to be the next batch of mini-me’s
falling in beds like leaves from trees
at the slightest wind
talking about he’s just a friend
he nor she knows not commitment
offspring grows up with resentment
indifferent to any other
call her by her first name and never mother
taught to smother all compassion
made to be heartless or to break hearts
soon to be transferred to the prison yard
numbered before named
which will never change
it’s strange how the government produce chattel