An open letter to a six-year-old turned thirteen.

You’re probably tall now,

with darkened skin.

The kind of candy-sweet personality

that elicits guarded giggles

from between locker doors.

I hope you read at night.

I hope you laugh at math problems too easy.

I hope you dream in intricate puzzles.

I hope you hear symphonies resonating in the backdrop of all your thoughts.

But most of all,

I hope you run around baseball diamonds

just for fun,

never worried about the bullets

that trail

so many

dark-skinned, candy-sweet boys-growing-up.