Happy Mother’s Day

Imagine a place where:
“Thank you”
isn’t flung at you snidely
at worst,
or hurled with sarcasm
at best.

Imagine a plane of existence
where gratitude
doesn’t soar past you,
doesn’t leave you waiting
at the gatehouse
for a missed flight of feeling
appreciated,
instead of terminally misused.

Imagine,
if you were more than
an emergency contact number,
more than
a sum of digits called upon
to subtract conflicts,
add solutions,
multiply your
contributions of love
without becoming internally divided.

Imagine,
if the hotline
to your acknowledgement
never went cold.
Imagine,
if embraces of gratefulness
enveloped you more often
than post favorite meals cooked,
annual Christmas presents bought.

Imagine a home
where thankfulness is matched
with the same expectations
that you will always be mother,
mama,
Mom.

Imagine a slice of reality
where you didn’t have to imagine
this poem to be true.
So let me end by saying this:
I’m sorry,
for all the times
I didn’t permit “thank you,”
to escape my lips
more often than it has.

I’m sorry,
for permitting this
plane of existence
to feel more like
an act of terror
towards your twin towers
of love and patience towards me.

I’m sorry,
that it feels like
you’re only on speed-dial
when my mind is too slow
to solve my own problems,
that you’re on call just
to do the listening
instead of being heard.

I’m sorry,
if my hugs seem seasonal
at best,
or synced to leap years
at worst.
I’m sorry.

But I am thankful,
for all the love
you still cultivate in me,
for not giving up on this garden
no matter how many weeds
of ingratitude I’ve let flourish.

I just want you to know,
that I see you
and always have.
I love you
and always will.

Thank you,
for being a mother,
a psychologist
to my mind,
a nurse
to my heart,
an optimist
to my ambitions,
a realist
to my dreams.
Thank you,
for being mother,
mama,
Mom,
to me.

I can only imagine
how hard it must be.

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Insurance Claim

Seldom
does she ask for favors
but when she does,
it is backed by an insurance called:
“If you can’t, don’t worry
I got it,”
and she does.

Understand, sacred texts
refer to her as “help meet,”
male egos transpose her flesh
into just meat,
but her womanhood
can’t subscribe to either.

Her ether,
is in the realm of leaders,
warriors,
and achievers.
Therefore, she has no time
for dreamers,
bickerers,
nor deceivers.

She’s constructed herself
with adamantine belief
you mistake for being
prudish,
stubborn and hard-nosed.
Truth is,
she’s heard enough of Judas,
seen enough of Brutus
to not superimpose
her own brutish
into her being,
savage into her seams.

She,
has hard-boiled eyes
that has never cracked
over the yoke she has borne
through the years,
so what makes you think
any part of you
is worth her tears?

Truth is,
she’s blueprint
for incompliant,
has a hard time being pliant
to your feeble frame of mind
so she can’t picture
being in need of you.

So if you can’t fathom
a woman composed
of less damsel than damnation,
less heaven than hell;
if you can’t imagine
a woman so whole,
holy becomes an understatement,
a religion you can’t sell;
if you can’t compute
a woman with enough
assurance in herself
that she doesn’t need to
buy your validation;
if you can’t,
don’t worry.
She’s got it.

It’s Okay

You could hear it in her voice. 
Love,  
could still be detected 
in the undertones but
her tired
was seeping through her syllables,
her weary
leaking through her vowels.  

Drip.  
Drip.  
Dripping through the ceiling
of her patience, 
collecting
in a bucket brimming
with reasons to give up; 
she  
was a drop away from spill,
a touch away from splatter. 

Normally, 
she could summon enough magic
to levitate her smile 
above the skyscrapers of her burdens. 
Normally, 
she had a scripture 
tucked under her breath
to whisper consolation. 

Normally, 
she could pretend 
that spreading herself thin and
running on the exhaust 
of yesterday’s hope that today 
would be better, 
was enough pep
to get her through. 
Normally, 
she had more faith
at the end of her day
than day
at the end of her faith. 

Normally, 
she didn’t wish
to be normal. 
She accepted that life
was carving out her precious
to make room for everyone’s hurt
but hers it seemed. 
She understood
she was given a mountain
to show others it could be climbed, 
but some days
she doesn’t feel like climbing. 

Somedays
she doesn’t feel like hero. 
Somedays
she doesn’t want to be nominated
to be the emblem of strength. 
Somedays, 
she just needs
a moment to cry, 
just needs
a moment to breathe,
just needs
a moment to wallow 
in her vulnerabilities. 

Just give her a moment
to be human.

Please.