My Grandmother’s kitchen was made up of Iron Pots.
Iron susceptible to charque firewood.
That reminded me so much of Iroko forests.
She would scrape off gathered black ashes
beneath her firewood pots,
With sweat beads running over the folds of her wrapper,
She will Scrape Every Ash Until
It. Packs. It’s. Luggage. Home.
To reveal the Metal Grey shade her pot was originally made of.

I like to think of our Black skin as Grey
As though The Creator said:
Let them be Grey
And the White skin said -
“stain them. darken them”
And then we became stained.
We became Black bodies.
Bodies we have come to accept.

I also like to think that White skin is made of Ash.
Ash they have peeled off from their bodies and stapled on Us.
Or Doesn’t a peeled surface turn red?

You see, My Grandmother would scrape foreign bodies And White culture
With Black soap
From her eyes
Pardon, I mean her pots.
To reveal the African and Original shade a Grey woman was made of.
Now, My Mother’s kitchen is made of rubber pots.
Rubber machines that cook meals faster than they should.
Machines that only need a little scrubbing,
Here and there.
Pots that hold no grit.
Pots that don’t fight back.

My kitchen is going to be made of paper pots
Disposable pots, I mean.
The type we thought existed Only in foreign tales.
Ashes don’t matter,
Every pot is used up in one use,
Every White tale is swallowed in one lump.

Grandmother’s kitchen will war against culture.
Fight off it’s sticky fingers off our Greyness
Till It. Packs. It’s. Luggage. Home.

My Mother’s kitchen will accept defeat.
Shake off the pieces it can.
Become softer.
Become Tolerant.
Allow mediocrity of our Greyness.

Mine will come defenseless.
Turn the Battlefield Of Cultures to an Open Circus.
Come to War with no weapons.
And will lose.
Will. Lose. it’s. Battle

There will be another War of Cultures,
One last time to prove our Greyness.
And My Daughters will never show up.