I never, once, saw my grandmother cry.

No tears but I do remember seeing multi-colored bruises in shades of the galaxy. 

Purples, blues and blacks, bruises from which varicose veins carried blue blood  toward island-sized splotches as if to say

I am here and I’ve worked hard and I am bruised because of it 

do you see me now? 

When I close my eyes 

I see my grandmother on her hands and knees scrubbing olive-colored carpet with the fancy swirls, 

which meet up with unfinished floorboards housing hoards of dead flies. 

A Cool Whip bucket of soapy water and a bristle brush on two palms with Palmolive and two bruised knees asking 

no one for help as if it was hers alone to clean, 

no one asked if they could help because 

the floor belongs to no one until it’s time to sweep or mop or suck or scrub and then it belongs to her.

My grandmother had porcelain colored skin, 

not smooth like glass but hardened by double shifts and sinks full of fish yet to scale 

because no one eats if generations of women 

don’t work to work to work to work to 

plate to plate to plate to plate what’s setting before you.

My grandmother said 

slacks and shears and skeins and 

here, have another slice of blackberry pie.