Daughters

My grandmother's hands learned the rules too young:
which door, which fountain, when to bite her tongue.
Then on Sunday nights she'd part her daughter's hair
and braid it close against the world out there.

My mother was her eldest, first in line,
who learned to hold a household like a spine,
and she made sure that we, her girls,
knew no single strand should carry the world.

So my sisters and I sat between her knees:
the comb, the grease, the rhythm, the squeeze,
the tug that made us wince and grow,
the love you feel before you know.

My father's sister, the last of three,
came up behind two brothers, fierce and free,
and she showed me a woman could take up space
and never shrink to keep her place.

Now I part my own daughter' curls,
two bloodlines braided in my girls,
and their father's hands are in it too,
a weight that two carry through.

The world will read them differently
than it read my grandmother, or me,
so I hand them every strand she gave
and let them choose which ones to save.

Daughters of yesterday, women of today,
daughters of today, soft leaders of tomorrow.

But no one stops being a daughter at ten,
or twenty, or fifty, or after "amen."
So if you are grown and no one calls you "girl,"
if you're raising sons or the whole wide world,
if your arms are empty, or aching, or full,
this day is for you. You are someone's daughter still.

And to the daughter who sat alone,
who learned to braid her hair on her own,
who was left behind and still chose kind:
you are not a loose strand. You belong to this line.

To every hand that parts a daughter's hair,
two mothers, two fathers, whoever is there:
don't stop at "cute," don't stop at "sassy."
Tell her she's brilliant. Tell her she's ready.
Raise her to lead instead of follow,
and peace won't be a word we borrow;
it will come the way rain finds the ground,
soaking in slow till the green comes round.

Because hair is soft, but a braid is strong,
and the softest things can hold on long.
Our softness is ours, and we choose when it bends;
it isn't a tax the world gets the spend.
We push back quiet, strand over strand,
each small refusal a tightening hand,
till the thing they said we could never do
is woven so tight it's simply true.

So no, we will not hold the world alone;
we were never meant to carry it on our own.
A braid is a promise that none of us fall:
each strand holds a little, and so we hold all.

Here's to my grandmother, here's to my mothet,
my aunt and my sisters, my girls, and each other,
and here's to the daughter still reading this line:
you're part of this braid, and your strand holds mine.

Daughters of yesterday, women of today,
daughters of today, soft leaders of tomorrow.