My black Mother


It’s the 3rd time my phone has rung in the same hour

My mother. Calling, screaming, forcing, demanding. 

“Marti, call me back I have some good news to tell you this time.”

I roll my eyes knowing there’s no need nor urgency for anything. 

But I betta call back. As grown and independent as I am.

I have my own good news to tend to.

I have my own needs to meet.

And yet, the phone keeps singing. Forget the breakfast you wanted to make. 

Don’t sit down, close your eyes to meditate. Stop rolling your mat out for yoga, you don’t need that.

What you need to do is call your mother back.

The mother that sacrificed her life for you.

The mother that carried everything on her back for you. 

The least you could do is call me back. “ I just got to say this one thing then I’ll be out ya hair.” 

That one thing turns into a hour and 15 mins of sang’n the blues, not one or two things of any good is said. 

Ring….Ring….Ring.. Ring…

Ring…Ring… Ring…Ring…

I let the phone ring. I’ll get it when I feel like talk’n. 

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