My supposed fragility
was stamped on me when
I was pushed from my mother.
Did I look fragile?
Wailing with virgin lungs,
bloody without being cut?
Did my flailing body 
and strong grip 
interfere with your vision of how
easily breakable I was to be?
But then I was
washed and soothed,
and I slept,
as fragile as 
the pink paper F 
pinned to my crib.