In the sop and swirl of a warm place we were dancers you, your daddy, and I after days of moan and ache. You were the funky plie of bean pies brought from bow tied disciples under the overpass. Daddy was the cool side step of biscuits, grits and salmon croquettes on the lazy days and I was the rolling hip bone of the Christmas Eve gumbo pot and Santa Claus go Straight to the Ghetto You were not made in a slow waltz and curtsy but in the hustle and bump of a kitchen witch and her man. You were created in the sweet swell of a slow drag while al green stirred our pots.
Thanks for reading! If you enjoy Raising Mothers, join us as a sustaining member to help RM remain ad-free. Invest in amplifying the voices of Black, Asian, Latine(x), Indigenous and other parents of color at our many intersections. Tiers start at $5/month.