bbq, a 2021 poem
cleveland
i grew up in a place where i could walk out of the front door of my parents’ house, go to the end of my block, and look around and see restaurants and shops from the mix of it all. america, the melting pot: living in little arabia, little honduras up the street
together
thriving
and it wasn’t the ghetto
although the hood was the same, it had love
i get to columbus and i need to take a bus to see a black owned bbq spot
it’s sterile here
i get to columbus, downtown, and see more homeless people than i have
ever
seen in my life
i get to columbus and the black and brown people
are on the outskirts, exiled
i’ve never seen gentrification
this fucking bad
and fuck my home city for trying to catch up
i get to columbus
and wonder where they
are and why they aren’t
gathering and i
realize it is
because it is
sterile here, where
are mine?
bexley is so
beautifully overpriced
you pay more for
the lush green
but near old oaks and east livingston
i saw a rat
for the first time
in a trashed
grassed lot
brick houses
and gas bills kept
them warm
that winter
i get to columbus and i see a bbq spot is
synonymous to bullet
casings at the bus stop, but all
i learn from
that is the love will
find it’s way out regardless
a rib was the part of the meat plantation owners didn’t want
i’ll throw you scraps
you get what i think you deserve
stolen people from nigeria, senegal, congo, angola, ghana, cameroon, ivory coast...
the whole diaspora and motherland alike
it is sterile over here
if you give me
an inch, i’ll steal
your car and drive
100 miles
i’ll laugh in
your face while
i do it
bbq came out of slavery
throw me scraps
and i’ll fix them up with love
and we’ll eat better than you
throw me copper scraps
and i’ll make them
into gold
perspective is everything isn’t it?
good
southern
home
cooking
thank my ancestors
you better say grace before you eat
the only family dollar is a bus ride down the way - barred windows
the bbq spot
up the street a short walk
bullet casings,
shit flock flies,
and the first rat
i’ve ever seen
not a skip
away, but what i know
is that the love
will always
find its way
walking to work i saw a whiteguy come out those doors
a bag and box in one hand
and his small kid’s in the other
it’s not his fault, but isn’t that sweet?
eatin’ scraps
can’t help but to
go where the
love is to
a home with
a table full
of what you think
you deserve
