If I am not insulted within thirty seconds

of walking into a room, I know I am not

amongst my niggas. Praise the tongues

that paint me with the worst names.

My chaotic choristers, my closest kin

locking in on my leaning sneakers

& nappy ass hair. Smiling with teeth

yellow enough to be a halo, they

crown me. Roast me royal. Stab me

in the gut with soft daggers, all before

I can even shed my coat & pop a squat.

I blab rebuttals bout bygone hairlines,

broken diets, their terribly rolled blunts.

Here, in this sanctuary of slurs, I am

finally enough—though my niggas will

say I am too much, noting the way my

muffin top spills over my waistband

& how a B-cup wouldn’t stand a chance

against my chest. All things considered,

I can think of no place I’d rather be

than in this room rife with chuckles &

boozy breath, situated round a rickety

card table dented with memories of

spades games that got a bit heated.

O, my friends, my niggas, my heart &

heart & heart, I am lost outside any

room not darkened by your shade,

curse me crooked. Mock my mannerisms

& choice of cologne, my sloop footed

gait & obvious bluffs. Rebuff my hot

takes & take the last hot & ready slice

when you see me reaching for it. You

deserve this, the grease, the good &

plenty of a cup of brown & a belly

laugh at my expense. Life is very long,

& so full of woe, it’s best we be here,

sharing cigs & bad advice, thinking about

all the years we’ve had & all the years

we have left.