Each October my grandmother calls
to tell me she ain't
cooking for Thanksgiving this year.
How work ain't goin' good, how she tired, and how money is tight
She is known for her empty
threats.
Her hands don't know how not to
rip and steam and cut and bake.
She just calls to hear me
groan, grovel, and beg.
To hear me say how much I love her
cooking.
How ain't no banana puddin' like her banana puddin'
and remember the last time we let Phyllis make the mac and cheese?
This is nothing more than a temperature check.
To make sure I ain't forgot her
hands, and what they can do and make
like stuffing from scratch,
like cornbread with no Jiffy
like a way out of no way.
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