Seeing love…

I am a perfectly imperfect being. But in his eyes, I am simply perfect. I am his first love, his first kiss, his first everything. He is the only being who knows what my heart sounds like from the inside. He lays his head on my chest to hear my heart beat each morning because it reminds him of home. We fight and we argue each and every single day. We argue over diaper changes, brushing our teeth, not playing in the toilet, and why mommy doesn’t want him playing in her shirt. I always lose the battle, but I’m praying that I win the war. You see, he is only eighteen months old, a year and a half, yet he is the same size as the three year old’s at daycare. He stares at me with love in his eyes, unconditional, even if I forget his snack or pick him up late or change his diaper a little behind schedule and end up having to change his entire outfit. He runs and jumps and skips outside because he loves the freedom that being outside gives him, even if mommy is out of breath trying to catch up. Living on the fifth floor in new york city, he stands on the couch and stares out the window. Looking down on the tiny people he sees going about their day, watching the sun rise and set. He climbs in my lap that he is starting to out grow because he wants my undivided attention. His first word was mama. For four months it was the only word he knew. For four months minus a day, I wished that his first word had been dada. We laugh and play and giggle and share and read and play some more. He bumps his head and turns to me for approval to cry. 

Motherhood. Each night I want to turn in my resignation letter, but each morning he will not allow it. For he did not ask to be here, but now that he is, he demands time, energy, and attention. He places my face between his tiny hands and kisses my forehead. He runs and jumps into my arms when he sees me. He runs away from me when he hears the words bath or diaper. His breath on my cheek each morning as he climbs into bed with me so we can get another hour of sleep is the sweetest thing I’ve ever felt. He snuggles closer and throws his leg around my waist to ensure that I don’t try to sneak away from him.  Each day my heart sinks more and more in love with you as you stare up at me with those eyes that match your fathers, seeing me, with love…


These old bones…

These old bones ain’t what they used to be.

My father came into the house. He decided that he was going to fix the roof himself after Harvey left Houston broken, trying to pick up the pieces again and patch things back together best as we could.
You could hear his deep breathing from a hards day of work. I offered to help next time as he laughed at the image of my frail 100 lb frame, trying to carry wood up a ladder. He knew my heart was in the right place, but the only thing I was allowed to carry up the ladder was a bottle of water.
He sat down and said I need you to rub my feet. It brought flashbacks of my childhood, taking his shoes off and trying to place healing hands on tired feet.
My mother sat across from us, holding my son as he stared, not quite sure what was going on. I said to him, this is supposed to be your job, but until you’re old enough, I have the honor.
And with every moment I placed my hands over my father’s aching feet, I realized that he needed more.
I held his hands in mines. They used to seem so much grander when I was a little girl. Now, I can see how they’ve aged. Cracking and peeling. Callused in most places. These hands have seen many years of hard work so that mines wouldn’t.
With every movement, I could hear his bones creek and crack. The grimace on his face matching the pain that I can only imagine that’s going through his body. I held his hands in mine, rubbing until he couldn’t take no more from the pain and the pressure of my hands on his.
I moved to his arms and his back until he said no more, trying to ease just a little pain from my father’s aching bones that have accumulated over the years.
And while he sleeps not so soundly tonight, I am awake, thinking about the sounds of his bones under the weight of my fingers.
Thinking that tomorrow, he will get back up there, with no complaint, because he knows that he is taking care of his family. Like he has done every single day of my life.
And even though there is nothing I can do to ever repay this man, tomorrow I’ll be right there up the ladder with his bottle of water, and waiting for when he is done, to have the honor of placing his tired feet in my lap once again.

The house is on fire…

Regardless if it’s a conspiracy.

Dead bodies still lay cold on the ground.

Families now have holes that can never be filled,

like the holes in his chest

and the holes in her back.

Like the hole my heart that mourns for the lives lost.

No more value placed on a human beings life.

No more lives lost.

No more mass shootings.

No more killing.

No more murdering

No more innocence and peace lost.

My heart cannot handle it.


Gone are the days where we walk down the streets,

thinking that we are free.

Paranoia is the zip code that our minds now live it.

Distrust fills our heart and anger clouds our judgement.

These are not peaceful times.

As a Black (strike one) Muslim (strike two) woman (strike three),

Am I supposed to be out?

Those that I identify with are harassed, discriminated, oppressed,

and murdered in cold blood each day.

These things are getting closer and closer to home.

No one has the luxury of pretending that everything is okay anymore.

Racial profiling, systematic oppressions, false accusations, wrongful deaths…

Wrong is wrong and there is no justification for that.


Will my father or brother or husband be next?

Will I?

Will you?


What is left of this world?

What future are we giving our children?

What future?

…if we’re all dead in the streets





Melanated Child

Dark skin

Coconut oil

Weaved crowns

and crowns grown straight from the roots that stand straight up and defy gravity.

Beautiful melanated children

how sweet you are.

Dreaming sweet dreams of the summer sun on Juneteenth.



Playing hopscotch and double dutch,

standing on the side lines,

watching Bubba dunk on Ray Ray.

The innocence of childhood flies past you

as you play on the playground.

Indifferent to the realities in this world.


The horrors of Tamir Rice flash before your tired mothers eyes,

another baby, another life,

another black boy whose body lies cold in the ground.

His name forever intertwined with the memorial of every single black boy

whose life ended a moment too soon.

While your granny makes silent prayers over you each night.

Praying that you name doesn’t join the ranks.


Brown eyes.

Full lips.

Sweaty palms.

Melanated child

hold on to your innocence


because soon, your hands will become tired and you will loosen your grip,

and they will try to rob your innocence from under you.


The days of diabetic causing kool-aid and seed spitting watermelon

as the juice runs down your cocoa butter skin, are numbered.

Because even if you make it out alive,

you will still have to hold firmly to your roots,

for that too, they will come for.

Even if the revolution is televised,

it will forever be intertwined into your history.

For them, it’s just another documentary.


Melanated child know this.

You will have to work twice as hard for simply half of what they have.

But no matter how hard you work, at the end of the day,

the only thing that they will see is

a melanated child.


What does it mean to be human?
Sir, why so you ask me these questions
That I do not know the answer?
What does it mean to be human?
You are more than a brain and blood vessels that being oxygen to the heart.
You are more than lungs that fill with sweet air, with nostrils that filter out the tantalizing smell of hickory smoked chicken on the grill at your grandmother’s house on fourth of July.
You are more than  a student in a classroom who stares at the white board, filtering out the Read More

Ramadan Lonesome

as ii sit here in this big apartment that is made for two, all by my lonesome

surrounded by things because quite often ii don’t like being surrounded by people

at the beginning of this blessed month

ii sit with tears in my eyes

for 5 years ii have been on my own

away from my family for Ramadan

despite thinking that wouldn’t be the case again this year

a week ago

ii sit with these tears in my eyes because Ramadan is the greatest time in my life where

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I wonder if you think of me…

I wonder if you think of me,

As much as I dream about you.

Praying that you’re not a figment of my imagination.

I wonder if you think of me,

Leading me in Salah 5 times a day,

Building us a home in Jannah.

I wonder if you think of me,

Rubbing my belly as it grows Read More


I sit in the back of this classroom with my head ducked low.

Too smart for the black kids, taught that I am inferior to the whites, so I keep to myself.

My grades reflect those of a mediocre middle class school kid, whose parents care, but work too hard to pay me any attention.

My mouth don’t twist with a twang, so this Ebonics feels unnatural and foreign on my tongue.

As I sit in this classroom, my teacher attempts to fill these empty souls with knowledge, not knowing that their hearts are empty… Read More

Dear Future Hubby pt. 2

Dear future hubby,
You’re my liquid encouragement and I’m your crystal meth.
We find comfort in our addictions.
Trying to get my fix,

I need you.
Never wanting to let go,

so take my hand and guide me down the path that we are meant to take together,

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Like the midnight sky on a winter night

Frost bite threatens to creep up upon our toes

While we lay asleep

Dreaming no little dreams

While black boys kill other black boys like cops and robbers,

But when we wake, it is no longer a game

Robbed of their innocence, hands up, don’t shoot.


The color of the blood that runs down the streets of

Read More