check the fridge

You won’t find my culture in my face.
You will find it in the fridge —
in the pot of rice, with the crispy bottom,
and the scattered knobs of ginger root in the drawer.
You’ll find it in the fridge
and in the cabinets, where cures and comforts reside —
honey mixed with grated ginger for a sore throat,
fufu flour and okra soup for sleep.
You’ll find it in the cabinets — where spices are stored,
where maggi cubes and melon seeds hide in the corners.
And on the counter where stray wrappers and white pearls of the okra lay crushed.
Once they are swept away, I remain.
You won’t find my culture in my wrappings and adornments
or even on my tongue.
Sweeping my landscape won’t reveal to you who i am —
check the fridge.