My dear Kimani,
For two years, I have loved you with more deepness and ferocity than I even knew my heart was capable of. I love and cherish every moment that I got to experience you.
Yet, in the two years we shared together, you said that I never tried to understand you. In all my years, that has been my biggest regret. Despite how completely and unconditionally I cared for you, I did not make you feel my love. You said that I never tried to see you.
I hope that you can see that I see you, that I truly see you for who you are. I don't just see you for the white, ripped jeans you love to wear, the music you love to play in your living room, or the black, green and yellow beaded necklace I got you from Jamaica that you never take off from around your neck. I don't just love you as the man I met in my favorite neighborhood in Harlem, nor do I love you as just a simple part of my college years in New York.
I love you for your unforgivingly open and kind heart. I love your quiet and thoughtful mind. I love you for the incredible father you are to your two daughters. I love you for the pain I see behind your eyes when you start to talk about your mother and father. I love you for the way you love your home, the way your eyes light up when you tell me stories of growing up in the hot, tropical forests. I love you for the way you laugh, loudly and freely, when you're with your cousins and friends.
I love that no matter the physical or emotional pain you've endured, or the amount of people you've loved that you've lost — you never lose hope. I love you for serving others through your cooking; the passion and heart you put into every Caribbean meal you make. I love how overly conscientious you are about keeping a clean apartment. I love how you smile when we watch old comedies. When we were together and used to walk around New York, I loved how you would put your arms around me and pull me up to your fast pace, almost running as if we were racing back to our apartment on West 141st Street. I love you so much, and I took you for granted.
Love is attention, and I'm sorry if you ever felt like you didn't have mine. I will spend the rest of my life and future relationships making sure that my partners feel seen and heard. You gave me that lesson. You changed me forever.
Kimani, a part of me will always love a part of you. You are the most beautiful person I have ever known. You deserve to be celebrated and seen every day.
It started innocently between us. Laughing all night as we compared ass whooping stories. Remember the flag football games and bonfires, or the time you fell out of the tree playing flashlight tag?! God, we laughed! Or the early Sunday texts to make sure you were coming to church, because what was church if we couldn’t laugh together at folks catching the Holy Ghost. We laughed big laughs.
I remember when we walked the streets of Paris as teenagers, smoking by the river. You were so excited to show me how much cooler than me you’d become. I obliged you. And, that night, something happened that wasn’t supposed to happen between boys, especially Black boys. Now, we had a secret hidden from the world, together.
And maybe that’s what makes this love letter foolish. This story has been written. But, I didn’t know it wouldn’t work. It wasn’t on the TV, then. I thought we were supposed to hide it, and hate it. But, that thing that happened in Paris happened again. So, I started to imagine our one day. You were going to be Pops, and I was going to be Dad. And it was going to be beautiful—eventually.
But we continued to practice our performance art of talking to women. We hid love well under the sheets: door shut and lights off. But that’s the cruelty of loving you. It’s always been hidden. Even now I can’t use your name.
I caressed your hand as we walked the aisle of the grocery store, hoping you’d return a playful smile, but was scolded with a brisk, “what the fuck!”
Every time I tried to emerge into myself, I got thrust backwards. Because my understanding of me was tied to you. We were boys hurting. All I wanted was to reach out to you and say, I am here, take my hand. I wanted to embrace our Black love.
But, then you called. With that news that crushed the entirety of me. She was pregnant. You were getting married. And he came into the world, a beautiful child. I was an “uncle,” now. To the boy that came into this world and crushed mine…and I had to find love for him, because he was your baby boy.
And even still, I want you. I want to grow old with you, laughing about the time we’ve wasted apart—like in our favorite movie, LIFE. I want us to re-write Giovanni’s curse. If you ever reach out your hand in love, I’ll grab it. Forever ever. And I’ll be Dad. And you’ll be Pops. And our kids will see love between us, and for us. Because the world is changing. And our love letter doesn’t have to end with “only if we lived in a different time.” But I don’t think you can love the part of me that loves you. The part that is willing to say I am gay.
It’s no longer a cancer I want to cut out. It no longer seems antithetical to my Black masculinity. It is beautiful to be Black, to be man, and to be gay. I don’t know if this is a love letter to you or to me. But, ours was a love story that ended with me smiling, because I love the part of me that you ignited.