Bright smile, bright toys, bright shoes, bright life,
Candace: a perfect mother and wife.
Encouraging, kind, thrifty, and green,
She was even a top-notch baking machine.
Trays of pink cupcakes, and piles of sewing,
And cases of books to display all her knowing.
Her baby spit-up and it somehow looked cute.
Every memory captured in some photo-shoot.
Her posts could make even the flu look sublime;
A coughing, cold baby; all happy online.
In the west it’s the standard to be such a wife.
White smile, white toys, white shoes, white life.
Addis had quite the contrasting appeal.
Her skin, and her eyes, and her stories were real.
A mom in Bishoftu, about twenty-seven.
Directing her hope and her thoughts towards a Heaven.
No time to post baby girl’s every squeal,
With scratching and searching to make every meal.
No husband to please with some pastas and cakes,
Just hollowed-out prayers, with some gnawing back-aches.
Addis grew hungry. The baby did, too.
‘Till the moment she groaned, “Jesus, what do I do?”
As she plead with the Father there down on her knees,
She settled to send that sweet child overseas.
Bright smile, bright toys, bright shoes, bright life.
I convince myself what I’m doing is right.
I’m providing a life she would never have had!
Education and parties, a mom and a dad.
Trading choices and chances with struggles and strife,
White smile, white toys—Is this really the life?
Addis’ tears are unheard and unknown,
Dreams of her child, completely alone.
(Imagine your child leaving home for the West;
To miss every moment—to think it’s what’s best.)
Though adoption is costly, she’s well-worth the fee.
But I wonder if she would choose Addis or me?
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