Her daddy was ashed grooved hands,
tree trunk man, rock in the A.M.E.
and haul a righteous hymn all the way
up from his skinned toes home.
His shrine at the kitchen table,
dousing Mama’s overwhupped
starches with Tabasco fire,
gotta make it worth the biting,
peppered heat stinkin’ an inch
from all of his skin. Baby girl
he’d whisper, baby girl baby girl
baby girl, splintered palm pressed
into her belly, kicking hard denims
away from his ankles, losing
his thumbs in her hair, clawing loose
Sunday plaits, saying with muscle clench
and crunchy candy that she was
wide shoulder pretty, sweet leg
double dutch jumping pretty,
more color than was ever even necessary.
Underneath a pissed blanket, she waited
for teacher. She loved the rough universe
of his left hand, and how he said she was so black
he needed directions to get to her
in the dark.