At whose table shall I sit?
Is there a space for me?
Well, how many tables are there?
And who sits at those tables?
Is that even where I belong?
Maybe someone saved me a chair …
Perhaps space was divinely created for me …
Or does my spot remain cast aside, ignored, and unwanted?
Should I force my way in and pull up my own chair?
You know, shift folks so I get into position
Or I could ask permission, politely with a smile
Spout pleasantries, curtsey, and grin
Then might they let me in?
Nah, I’m not forcing it.
And I’m not asking permission.
I’m not begging for scraps.
I’m not waiting for crumbles.
I’m going to build my own table,
Make room for me
And bring all my femininity and my blackness
My strength and my vulnerability
My pride and my sorrow
All the stuff encapsulated within the depths of my soul
I can bring it all to my table
And invite whomever I want to share in that sacred space with me.