“Don’t put Black girls under blue light” she sighed, peering at the scope that did not see as God/Her intended. My mama like her mama told us About yellow: the only safe color. Yellow like – yes – the Sun, whose acrylic tips tickle the microfine follicles and entreat our skin its secrets. Yellow bathes in young love, cradles minds elastic, asks for only that part of your soul your body doesn’t need anyway. White folks know what yellow can do. White folks gave black barbie purple, instead. Yellow flits across the faces of some. They say yellow is a privilege, perhaps true. Yellow drapes, languishing in a heat from the beforetime when no sunscreen necessary for (what better shield than the roof of Planter who saw you made, laced waist to ankle.) Yellow, a fantasy.