What can I give away?

What will be taken from me

that was never mine?

May the violence I was told was safety

explode beneath my feet.

This is a spell miscast,

mistaken, misheard.

In the kitchen

I paint layers of dough with butter,

fold pastry around spinach like a flag.

I surrender.

I juice limes and oranges,

dredge chicken breast in white white flour to fry.

Steam rice. Roast salmon. Cook greens.

These are among the meals

I cook for Black women,

for their children,

for the food kept out of their mouths

and put into mine before I knew it.

There is no word terrible enough.

I am going to keep telling this

as long as my head

stays on my shoulders.