Fool had ten thousand acres
but needed my ass to make it complete.
He rubbed me like a good luck charm
and I poisoned his pancakes.
Had him under my spell for a harvest
but Miss Martha was a witch from way back.
She put a conjure on me wild
and white as a Mount Vernon winter,
blue veins and translucence
pimp-slapping me into dreamless sleep.
I woke up wound tight as the scrap
of cloth squeezing my braids.
Since then I’m on this box,
an heirloom mammy, memorabilia,
the taste you grew up with. No preservatives,
just near-sighted nostalgia to keep me unlined
and locked in disgraceful grin.
I’m an easy recipe,
helping hungry Americans handle their hotcakes
like the old man worked his wenches:
turn them when they begin to bubble
and the bottoms are golden brown.