“My Mama Said” so “Sorry in Advance”

These poems (originally written as spoken word pieces) are dedicated to my mother, who taught me that I’m a beautiful Black woman and that all I ever had to be was myself. Shining bright was never an option; it was the standard. 

“Sorry in Advance” is a testament to my growth as a poet and my mom’s connection to that. “My Mama Said” acts as a follow-up, as it is reminiscent of our constant reflections when we talk. Fun fact: she does not know these pieces exist—at least until she reads them here for the first time. Mama, stop bawling.

My identity—an intersectional identity at that—has always been uplifted by my mother. It is my turn to pay her back.

Mama! Good gyal come out (a Jamaican way of saying “periodt”)!!!  

Sorry in Advance 

Three years ago 

My mom asked me to write happy 

I apologized in advance 

Happy was already the default, mama

I had to show that I too, could be angsty 

Still a newborn poet, verifying my words 

And lack of punctuation, filing through my metaphors 

Dotting my I’s

Showing that I was worth finally being listened to 

Until angst and insecurity showed up at my doorstep 

I was determined to write those feelings 

Even the ones I had to conjure up at night so I could 

Write my newfound sorrows and continue 

My new way of not being silenced 

By someone asking me to get to the point 

And shorten the story 

And slow down because it was “too chaotic” 

And I finally got to be the one to run the show 

Setting the stage, picking up the mic, 

Determining the righty tighty lefty loosey 

I was not going to write happy, that was expected of me

The oversharer, smiley, excitable person

I had to change that idea of me 

Quickly 

I had to change people’s idea of my writing so that 

Something was coherent 

My speech wasn’t 

I’d lose people quicker than a rerouting GPS 

I rerouted to tangents 

Throwing the person off the cliff of a conversation 

Watching up above wondering how they got down below 

When this initially started out with my mom 

Asking for joy in my writing 

I get joy from my writing 

Are those the same?

So I kept going, not knowing when to stop the play 

The playing around with connecting to people who didn’t want to 

And trying to draw out the portraits of people who hid from me 

All to say that I was played with 

I went looking for trouble because I wasn’t raised by it 

Mom, you did such a good job bringing joy 

I had to find despair to compare it to 

And I had paired it desperately to the view of poetry 

Singing out the sorrows I was living through just for the hell of it 

Experience is experience, but compensation is key 

So as a growing poet, I try to write to the best of me 

Am I growing in the way that I should be? 

So that when angst and despair are sent to my doorstep,

I can write ‘return to sender’?

I can write for myself although my past pieces are pieces of me 

I can write for myself. 

So mama, 

When you hear this one, 

Hopefully, 

After 7 years, 

What you have said, I have done. 

My Mama Said

My mama said “don’t dim your light for anyone”

I took that order to go

From the blinding cheek highlight

To the twinkle in my eye while explaining a story 

To the lighting overhead on stage in front of the mic 

I was gonna listen to my mama

My mama said “you’re a beautiful Black girl”

That one had to simmer

Until I realized how I shone in the sun and glimmered at night 

When I realized my light skin melanin,

Passed down out of love and planning and unintentional tanning,

Had a certain shine 

Where if you caught the angle correctly

You saw each pore decorated ever so slightly 

As if bedazzled 

My mama said “keep smiling big”

I can do that, just big and bright as always 

From no teeth to teething to cheesing 

To hollering to giggling 

Imani was going to smile 

Veronica worked too hard to keep it 

My mama said “your hair is so beautiful”

You got that right, girl 

Funnily enough, you did it 

Made me rock my curls and all the length that followed 

Always ready to part, deep condition, moisturize

My mama 

She knows me like the back of her hand 

She knows me like the scar from her C-section, my C-section

She knows me.

So she knows she must remind me 

Otherwise I will forget.