My mother,
Bless her bless her bless her,
Almost didn’t survive my birth.
She named me lucky
And I have always known what it meant.
What it means
To be black and woman
In a place like this,
In a place like anywhere.
It means we save ourselves
With grit
With each other
With grace
With luck
And still
We get handed the bill
For the privilege of almost-dying.
My daughter,
Bless her bless her bless her,
Came into this world
The hard way
Through dark water
And I did not call her lucky
I named her good.
I named her beautiful.
And I said her name out loud.
I said her name on purpose
So even the walls of that room would remember.
Black mothers,
Bless us bless us bless us,
We have been the cost of our own survival
For too long.
We have paid
With our bodies

With our deaths
With our almost-deaths
With our whole lives.
We have paid enough.
Let our children be heard.
Let our children be held.
Let our children be cared for,
Not because they were lucky
Just because it is right.
Just because it is beautiful.
Just because it is good.

Upile Chisala is a Malawian storyteller and poet. Now based in Baltimore, she began sharing her poetry online at 17. Her work celebrates the joy and gentleness of black womanhood, creating space for voices that have long deserved to be heard. Among her treasures are one daring darling daughter, two degrees from Oxford, three published poetry collections, and many deep and abiding connections with women who have changed her life. She is currently working on her fourth poetry collection and her first novel.