For every strand in our hair, holds memory.
We are, our past, as we are present. 

From the split parts, in our heads.
As the jam makes its way through.  

Our thick hair.  

Getting braids is no different.  

From way back when,
when slaves would Braid maps into their children’s heads. 

No different from the patterns and shapes.  

We make styles out of, till this day.
We strive from our roots and we grow from our struggles.  

Our hair is no different, Our hair is a root. No different from a tree.  

It grows. 

Roots that spread so deep,
close enough to touch an ancestor’s hand through the dirt. 

Hold my hand. 

 For as I am you, and you are me,
please do not label our hair as Nappy. 

Don’t deceive me for what my hair can be. 

 We strived, from struggle. 

As we rise above Weak.