Exit Speech

To those who boycotted when Michelle Obama was named the spokesperson for Subway’s healthy eating campaign.

Call her monkey, mammie, pickaninny.

Call her common, unworthy of the white throne.

Call her black ink blot in your psychological exam, call her tar baby blues.

Bitch.

Call her negro—nigga, never made it.

Call her heretic. Call her communist. Call her black cloud reigning over white sky.

Say that nothing black will ever guide your tongue, that no one the color of soot and sawdust will ever tell you what to put in your mouth.

Well I seem to remember,

I remember how we stirred wooden spoon, mixing magic in kitchen,

mixing fried freedom of lard-mothered dough and fatback, how we ham-hocked our way onto your dinner table, smothered peas and pork chop, peach cobbler slithered our necks into your dining room.

We collard green glided across plate into mouth, spicy scrambled-egged and flapjacked on your fork, hot-water cornbread coaxed our way onto your tablecloths, you ate every bit of us.

You sopped up our syrup biscuit with butter and molasses, drowned us down with toothaching sweet tea. You loved our sugar.

You licked us off your fingers and begged for seconds. We, the cook, the server, the dishwasher, the background music to your meals,

singing, “Food so good, stuck my foot in it.” Singing, “All my sweat and spit went in that soup.”

You ignored our forthright song, your bellies full with greed.

We have been the decider of what meanders into your cotton mouths for centuries, you smug snakes. You have been tasting our sweat and tear- jagged Jehovah notes floating into every recipe, been tasting our sorrow and sincerest hate.

Take a seat at our table. Let us fix you one final plate, I hope it goes down like gumbo glass slivers so when you start to boycott, when you warm your throat to speak, you will feel how deeply we rest on your tongue.