When I met your mother
the calluses on her hands
showed me the kind of boy you are;
one who is well cared for.
Her hands told the story of
the kind of woman she is—
One who holds the title ‘mother’
between her teeth like a bullet
that just missed the skin
of her brown boy’s back.
I bet your curfew
never missed dinner time.
Never went a day
without a home-cooked meal.
She shows a love where
sweat will fall from her forehead
before tears from your eyes.
She can do a lot with a little,
five dollars
at the corner store
goes a long way.
Her eyes say
that she didn’t go to bed
without knowing you were in yours.
There will always be
forehead kisses for her child.
When I met her
she taught me how
to love a black boy.