(Not Made. I’m Sent.)
I am the one my ancestors prayed for.
Not made. Sent.
Heaven-signed, purpose-pressed,
born from bloodlines that never rest.
God keeps His word.
He told my Mama, your babies will move mountains and break chains.
Told my Daddy, their names will echo in history’s veins.
Told my Granddaddy, the fire that forged your pain
will spark a storm that cannot be contained.
So here I stand,
part Irish fight, part Mexican flame,
and Black royalty that refuses to bow its name.
The nation tried to label us less than,
but you cannot bury what God commands to stand.
They feared this mix, this blending of might,
three oppressed bloodlines joining in light.
They rewrote history, tried to dim the flame,
but prayers do not die, they rise in the oppressed name.
I am walking proof of what heaven declared,
that unity births what the system feared.
That when the working class lifts its head,
every false throne starts shaking instead.
I was sent to speak truth where silence grew tall,
to remind the mighty that God still calls the small.
To walk in rooms where I was meant to shrink,
and speak the truth they hoped I'd never think.
Say my name.
Say it with your whole chest.
I am not man-made. I am divinely blessed.
Royal by birthright, refined through pain,
my purpose is louder than their disdain.
I am not the dream. I am the delivery.
Not the wish. The word fulfilled.
Every step, every breath, every yes
is proof my ancestors’ prayers were real.
Not made.
Sent.
And I came to remind the world,
God does not miss.